#(hint: It's Misogyny Babes)

[marzipanandminutiae]

hi! i was reading an article on fashion history today, specifically the 1840s, and it seemed to focus heavily on the idea of clothes relating to female oppression. i was wondering your opinion, if you have the time?

the article is here, https://fashionhistory.fitnyc.edu/1840-1849/

in particular, the article says “Women’s clothes became so constricting that her passivity in society was clear (C.W. Cunnington 135)”. i suppose i’m not entirely sure how valid that is? i’m just looking for another opinion, especially since i’m a complete amateur at fashion history. i know that you’ve talked before about some misconceptions around victorian womenswear, especially with corsets, so i’d love to know if this is of a similar vein to that or if it’s something different with a different background.

if you take the time to respond, thank you so much! i hope you’re doing well :)

This is. A very strange article, providing citiations for opinions as if they were facts. Like...why are you giving a citation for an interpretation of 1840s feminine clothing? I guarantee you won't find anybody in contemporary literature saying "ah yes, women dress like this because they are passive! that is the conscious reason we do this and we have all agreed on it." So it's not really a fact, is it? And therefore, why is it being cited as if it were?

They also seem very determined to believe that these clothes restricted movement to an unmanageable degree. While it's true that you can't bend at the waist easily in 1840s stays, you can still bend at the hips or kneel down. Preventing you from moving in one very specific way doesn't necessarily prevent you from accomplishing the same action with a different movement. It's also bizarre because they talk about women of limited means having access to fashion via ladies' magazines, but don't carry that through to its logical conclusion: working-class women wore similar clothing styles to their upper-class counterparts. And therefore were also wearing stays (practical applications thereof aside). And could ill afford to have their physical action limited. And therefore...? Maybe these garments weren't whalebone cages that kept women from living their lives, perhaps?

Also, this Cunnington fellow they cite for their FactPinions died in 1961. He was active primarily during the period of greatest disdain for all things Victorian- the early to mid 20th century. Are we examining those biases and comparing the opinions expressed therein to modern scholarship, World-Renowned Institution F.I.T.? No! Of course not! Why would we, when Everybody Knows Victorian women's clothing was horrible and restrictive and kept them from doing anything ever? Their society was highly misogynistic, so it must follow that every single thing about their lives was designed to actively oppress them! That's how human beings work, after all! Ahahaha! AHAHAHAHAHAHA!

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Don't get me wrong, he was one of the founders of my main field. He and his wife saved a vast number of garments from being lost forever, and I appreciate that. But he was, as we all are, a product of his time- and that time just happened to absolutely loathe everything about the era he was examining. So I'm not sure why we're taking his word as gospel here- especially when it's not even hard fact.

Like, for example, he says that the scoop bonnets of the era acted like blinders for women, a "moral check" keeping them focused on "the straight and narrow path ahead."

Except. Mr. Cunnington.

Women can turn their heads.

You can just. You can look in another direction. You're not a horse in a head-rein when you put on a coal-scuttle bonnet, so it hardly keeps you from seeing "immoral" things. It is, quite frankly, Not That Deep.

Aaaaand there's the old bugaboo of children's corsets, with a direful comment that girls began "corset training" as young as ten years old. I've gone over this before but, whatever salacious literature of the day may imply, it was not at all common to waist-train young children. Indeed, most so-called "children's corsets" that I've encountered are more like lightly stiffened vests designed for posture support, and can't even be tightened.

There was also at least one very weird technical observation about clothing in here, which surprised me for a fashion school where you'd think at least one person editing their articles would have sewing experience: the comment that the tightly-fitted armsceyes (arm holes) of 1840s bodices kept women from raising their arms above 90 degrees.

I could be wrong, but in my experience a more fitted armsceye allows for MORE freedom of movement, not less. One of the biggest issues I've encountered- and heard other sewists complain about -with modern mass-produced garments is armsceyes cut too large. This may seem counterintuitive, but the principle is something like: Armsceye Cut Close To Armpit = Less Pulling On Body of Garment = Can Raise Arm Higher Without Disturbing Rest Of Shirt/Dress/Whatever. And for an extremely close-fitted garment like a Victorian bodice, that effect could mean that you really CAN'T raise your arm above your head. Trust me; I know this from having made the mistake too many times in my own historical sewing. Now, if the armsceyes were cut very small in general- high in the armpit but very low on the shoulder, too -that maybe could restrict movement somewhat. And I haven't examined many 1840s bodices; it's possible that's how the sloped-shoulder silhouette of the day was achieved.

But I really doubt that all women went around being unable to raise their arms above their heads given that, again, many of them had to work. And it seems weird that a fashion school would simply say "tight armsceyes Bad" without explaining themselves more specifically. Potentially, depending on what they meant, it's even downright ignorant.

In conclusion: the article is correct in a lot of specifics, like the shapes and silhouettes concerned, the trend towards historical inspiration and very subdued ornamentation, etc. It's just when they start trying to interpret the imagined Deeper Meaning of the garments, or extrapolate about the lived experience of wearing them without ever trying it/examining what women actually said about it in the period (or didn't; absence of discussion can be telling in itself) that it starts to go off the rails.

I also feel like it's emblematic of a larger issue within the field, namely: You Can Just Say Whatever The Hell You Want About Dress History And People Will Believe You. One might think academia would be immune to this and more rigorous in its fact-checking, but. One would be wrong. Probably because there have been so many myths floating around for decades, getting repeated over and over, never being questioned because- as I said above -everyone is very very ready to believe that the past was a total hellhole. And most of these myths bolster that image, so...why would anyone doubt them?

Besides the small, unimportant fact that, you know. They're not true.

I don't know. It definitely puts my professional imposter syndrome to flight, I can tell you that much.

[shellshocklove]

lover, lover, lover | joel miller

pairing/AU: 70s!pornstar!joel miller x inexperienced!female reader

summary: after blurring the lines with your boss and pornstar joel in pismo beach, what happens when you come back home to LA?

warnings: this is an 18+ fic so mdni! reader is 23, joel is in his early 30s, accuracies and inaccuracies about the 70s and the porn industry, smoking of cigarettes (it's the 70s alright), misogyny (bc of the times™), swearing, use of pet names, oral (f+m receiving), use of sextoys, handjob, praise kink, soft!dom joel but also a hint of sub!joel, porn, degradation, no use of y/n

a/n: this is the part 2 to this fic. you should read the part 1 first or this will make no sense lmao. i know it's been months since i posted that one and i've gone back and forth a lot on if i was gonna write a second part, but here it is <3 again i wanna give a big thank you to my beloved @dustydaddyyy for encouraging me every step of the way, listening to me when i feel lost, and for reading through everything. i love you babes!!! <3

main masterlist / series masterlist / ao3

You jolted awake.

With a groan and a confusing squint, you sat up on your elbow. The back of your hand rubbed roughly at your eye as you looked around your darkened bedroom. The fan on your dresser huffed and swirled, blowing cool air in your direction with every pass – blowing away the memories of your dream.

You turned around to lay down again when you heard it. A distant sound of your phone ringing in your hallway. You let out another groan as you scooted out of bed, your nighty falling around your knees as your feet met the carpet floor. Shuffling down the hall you muttered a quiet “I’m coming, calm down,” to the phone.

You lifted the phone of the hook with a quiet, “Hello.”

“Did I wake ya, sweet girl?” the static voice answered.

“Joel, what time is it?” you sighed into the phone, your arm hitting the cool wall as you leaned against it.

“Um…” he started, probably checking his watch, “02.05.”

“Yes, you woke me up…” you told him, eyes tired and falling shut before blinking open in quiet panic, “Wait– did something happen? Why are you calling so late?” Fear squeezed around your heart, wrapping its cold hands around it as flashes of Joel getting arrested, or kidnapped… or something worse, played like a movie in your head.

“No,” he laughed, “No, sweetheart! I just couldn’t sleep.”

“So, you decided to wake me instead? You are aware we have a meeting with VCA tomorrow at 9am? I told you that didn’t I?” Two fingers pinched the bridge of your nose – trying to squeeze the sleep away.

You usually never forgot any of Joel’s meetings or commitments, and you prided yourself in staying on top of his schedule. You could swear you told him about the meeting the other day on the way back from Pismo Beach.

Pismo Beach.

You hadn’t seen him since you dropped him off. Two days had passed. Two days since… Since you’d had sex with Joel. Two days since he told you he wanted you to be his. Was Joel your boyfriend now? You couldn’t tell.

“Yeah, you did, you’re a good assistant,” he said, the smile evident in his voice.

The praise wrapped itself around your heart like a pink cloud of love – it made you smile.

“Thanks,” you whispered, your quiet voice making him chuckle down the other end.

You waited for his chuckle to die before you asked him, “Um… was there anything else?”

“You tired of me already, sweetheart?” he teased.

“No, never,” you shook your head, “it’s just late.”

“I know, I’m sorry baby,” the way he said it, he left the words hanging in the air.

A second passed in silence, and then another. You waited for him to say something else, but when the words never came you spoke, “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Can I come over?” he almost cut you off, his words hanging at the end of your own like a teenager on a skateboard gripping tightly to the back of a bus.

“Tonight?” you asked, front teeth digging into your bottom lip.

“Yeah, now,” he clarified, “my car’s fixed– I can be there in probably… thirty minutes?”

“Ehm…” your head bumped against the wall. Thirty minutes? It wasn’t that you didn’t want to see Joel – you did – but it was so late, and you had to get up so early tomorrow.

“Maybe twenty if I speed,” he laughed.

“Joel,” you chided, a smiled tugged at your lips.

“Okay, thirty,” he relented.

You pushed off the wall, a finger curling around the phone cord. “If I say yes you have to be sneaky– and quiet. My landlord doesn’t allow boys to visit.”

“Good thing I ain’t a boy then, sweetheart.”

You snorted, teeth digging into your lip to kill a smile from blooming, “I’m serious, Joel! A girl got evicted last month because she got caught having her boyfriend over.”

“How’s that even legal?” his static voice wondered.

“I don’t know Joel, my landlord… she’s this old lady– super religious and she owns the whole complex– I think she inherited it from her late husband who was a developer or something. Anyway, every time I bump into her, she always questions me about if I have a boyfriend and then gives me this speech about how premarital sex is a sin, and how I’ll go to hell–”

“Shit, baby– move out,” Joel cut you off.

“I can’t,” you sighed, “It was the only place I could afford when I moved here.”

“Ain’t I payin’ you enough?” he teased, “I’ll talk to Ronald about a raise f’you want.”

You let out a chuckle, “I’m not sure it’s appropriate– or professional, to talk about this now, Joel.”

“Alright, baby– always so professional,” he playfully chided, “we’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

You let out a hum, though a small knot tied itself in your stomach at the thought. You didn’t want Joel to get the wrong impression; that you wanted a raise now that you’d let him fuck you.

“See ya in 30?” he said, breaking the static silence, “I’ll be real sneaky.”

“Ok,” you said softly.

You told him your address, making him repeat your apartment number back to you before you hung up. You didn’t want him accidently knocking on the wrong door, and getting you evicted.

Padding back into your bedroom, you grabbed your silk robe hanging off the door. You twisted it around yourself while you turned on the lamp over your bedside table. The light bathed your room in a soft glow. You were starting to wake up a little now. Leaving your bedroom door ajar you walked back down your hallway with soft steps. Stepping into the kitchen, you grabbed a mug from your cupboard, busying yourself with making a cup of tea as you waited for Joel.

Thirty minutes later, you heard the buzz of your doorbell. Abandoning your cup on your kitchen table, you quickly hurried to your door, buzzing him in. Your heart hammered in your chest. The risk of getting caught so late on a Sunday night was low, but you could never be too careful. You waited for him in your doorway, your finger picking at your nail bed as you looked out for him to round the corner.

You breathed out a relieved sigh when you saw him, a smile widening across your face as he picked up his pace in a small jog. His grin was wide as well, all teeth and crinkles as he closed the space between you. With a small glance over his shoulder, he made sure he hadn’t been caught as you ushered him inside.

The light in your hallway was low, tinting everything in a warm yellow hue. His hands were on you in an instant, strong hands gliding over your waist from behind as you locked your door. In the next moment you felt his chest press against your back, locking you to his body in an engulfing hug. His nose dragged down the column of your neck, pressing sweet kisses into your skin.

“Hi,” he mumbled.

Leaning into his touch you hummed out a greeting. His grip tightened around you before he turned you around in his hands, your hands automatically wrapping themselves around his neck. God, he was handsome. Soft brown eyes shining under the soft light, you watched as they took you in, traveling down your bare face, down to your silk robe hiding your nighty. A sting of embarrassment panged in your chest under his gaze, maybe you should’ve changed into something else, something a little sexier. Then you realized what kind of sexy he was used to, sheer lingerie, stockings, garter belts and high heels, not whatever underwear you were hiding away in your drawers.

“Shit,” he whispered, eyes blown wide in the low light, “let me kiss you properly, sweetheart.”

His big palm cupped your cheek, bringing you closer before he brushed his lips over yours. He tasted like a mix of his last cigarette and beer. You didn’t realize how much you’d missed his touch, his lips against yours. Joel hummed into the kiss, nose bumping into yours as he held you close, thumb ghosting over your skin. The kiss was quick, but still tender, and when you broke apart, the embarrassment from earlier had faded.

“Missed your lips baby,” he whispered against them, emphasizing his words with another peck.

“You did?” your voice was breathless, eyes half lidded from his affection.

He didn’t answer, only catching your lips in another mind-blowing kiss. His hand not on your cheek traveled from your waist to the curve of your ass, where it squeezed. You jumped a little from his touch, breaking his kiss. Immediately Joel removed his hands, catching himself as he took a step back.

“No?” he asked, eyes searching yours.

A flood of warmth filled your chest, “No, it’s okay– it’s just… late.”

His eyes softened at your words, his palm finding your cheek again to softly rub his thumb over your skin, “I’m sorry.”

You shook your head, “It’s okay…” you trailed off, your hand grabbing his other hand to intertwine your fingers, “Let’s go to bed?”

With his hand in yours Joel trailed after you down the hallway.

“The bathroom is just in here if you wanna use it?” you stopped at the end of your hallway, pointing to your closed bathroom door. Joel gave you a short nod and a smile, and let go of your hand, but not before giving it a little squeeze.

You stepped backwards to push open your bedroom door while he vanished to your bathroom. The alarm clock on your bedside table showed 3.08 in big red letters when your eyes flickered to it as you pulled at the strings of your silk robe. You twisted out of it and hung it back on the hook on your door, before you climbed back into your bed, waiting for Joel.

He walked into your room a few minutes later. You watched him from under the covers, eyes hooded with tiredness as he shed his clothes. Naked, safe for his briefs, he haphazardly folded his clothes, eyes flitting around your room for a place to put them.

“You can just leave them on the dresser,” you said, all cozy under the covers.

Sending you a small nod he sauntered over to your dresser with his clothes half-folded in his hand, where he placed them down gently. He stood there for a moment longer with his back turned, something catching his eye.

“So,” he spoke up, “what’s the review?”

“Huh?” You were confused.

You watched how his shoulders shook, grabbing something off your dresser before turning around, hiding it behind his back as he closed the space between you. You were still confused, a furrow pulling at your eyebrows.

“What d’ya prefer? This,” he started, revealing what he was hiding behind his back, “Or the real thing?”

In his hand he held the box with the dildo he’d modeled for. You’d forgotten all about it in your back seat while you were in Pismo Beach, only noticing it again as you’d parked outside your apartment. You had been meaning to give it back to Joel, didn’t take his ‘joke’ of you keeping it at face value, but then you’d forgotten all about it, leaving you with no choice other than to bring it inside.

“Joel,” you felt a flash of heat burn your cheeks.

“What? I wanna know,” he grinned, fingers fiddling with the cardboard to open it.

You gave him a chastising kick from under the covers, trying to shut the conversation down, but it only made him huff out a laugh.

“I don’t know, I haven’t tried it,” you said truthfully. The thought hadn’t even crossed your mind.

“What? Not even once,” his eyebrows knitted together, he almost looked disappointed.

You shook your head, “I was gonna give it back to you when I dropped you off on Friday, but it slipped my mind.”

“Why? I gave it to you,” he pulled the dildo out, the supposed perfect recreation of his package.

“Joel, you couldn’t have been serious about that?” you breathed out a laugh. It was hard to take him seriously with the toy in his hand.

“Well, now I’m a little disappointed, sweetheart,” he placed the box and the dildo on your bedside table, next to your alarm clock, “I really wanted to know your thoughts.”

He crept up the bed as you shifted over to make space, holding open the duvet for him to slip under.

“I’m sorry, Joel– I just didn’t think you were serious about that… and,” you trailed off when he wrapped his strong arms around your body, twisting around in his arms as he pulled you close against him.

“And, what?” he said, his breath huffing against the shell of your ear.

“I… uh, I haven’t… since,” you didn’t know how to say it.

But Joel knew, pulling you closer to rock his hips against your ass, “Haven’t what, sweetheart? Touched yourself?”

He wasn’t hard, but he wasn’t not hard – you could feel the semi he was sporting against your backside. It made you lose your trail of thought, as memories of the last time he held you against his body like this, filled your mind.

You had enough sense to shake your head, not trusting your voice to come out as words and not a strangled moan.

“No?” he teased with another rock of his hips, “Well, I have, sweetheart– touched myself thinkin’ of you.”

“Joel,” you couldn’t fight the whine from escaping as he rocked his hips against you again, his big hand slipping under your nighty.

“Touched myself thinkin’ about this beautiful fuckin’ body of yours,” his hand splayed over your tummy, traveling upwards to grab at your breast. “Thought about these pretty tits,” his voice got lower, whispering in your ear as he flicked a finger over your nipple, making you sigh. He let go of your breast, hand gliding down your body to ghost over the hem of your panties, “And this tight little pussy,” he finished.

“Joel,” you sighed, body reacting automatically to his touch. His breath in your ear sent goosebumps down the whole of your body, and a whine fell from your lips as he palmed your heat over your panties, feeling your arousal starting to soak the cotton.

“Yes, sweetheart, say my name as I touch your pussy. Tell me who’s makin’ you feel good.”

Fuck, it took all your strength to gather your thoughts, “Joel, it’s–” you let out a gasp as his fingers found your clit.

“What, baby?”

“It’s– It’s late,” you managed to breathe out.

And just like that, the spell was broken. His hand slipped from your cunt to rest over your waist. You twisted around to face him, a pang of guilt filling your chest.

“I’m s-sorry, I just–”

He cut you off by pressing his lips against yours in a quick kiss. “Don’t you apologize to me,” he said, eyes boring into yours, “If you ain’t feelin’ it, I ain’t feelin’ it, okay?”

You felt yourself nod, your chest filling with gratefulness. You wanted Joel so much, you did, you wanted him to feel good, but you didn’t want it at 3am when you had to wake up in four hours.

“Thank you,” you whispered gratefully, your forehead falling against his.

He shifted his face, cheek brushing against your forehead until you felt him press a kiss to your skin. “Nothin’ to thank me for, my sweet girl.”

You shifted closer to him, cheek boring into his naked chest, “It’s not that I don’t want to,” you told him, “I’m just so tired.”

Pulling you closer to his body, Joel wrapped his strong arms around you, “’s okay, baby, you just close your pretty eyes, okay?”

You nodded against his head before you whispered, “Good night, Joel.”

“Night, sweet girl.”

“Hey,” you felt a nudge in your side pull you from your dream, “How d’you turn off this thing?”

Then you heard it. Your alarm. The beeping was loud and obnoxious, but it did the job to wake you, usually.

With heavy limbs you sat up on your elbow, goosebumps spreading over the newly exposed skin as you leaned over Joel’s body to press the snooze button. His big hands found your waist when you leaned back, guiding you to straddle his body.

His lips found yours in a soft kiss, then another before he mumbled, “Good mornin’,” against your lips.

He didn’t give you the chance to reply as he pulled you into yet another kiss. It took you by surprise, your hand coming up to press into the pillow next to his head, to hold your weight. Under the duvet you felt his hand travel down your body, slipping under the hem of your nighty and dragging upwards, cupping your ass as he pulled the fabric with him. His touch ignited something in you, making you whimper against his lips.

“There she is,” he whispered, pulling away from your lips with a loud smack to press kisses along your jaw. It made you sigh, your body going lax in his arms as he pulled you closer, mind going blank from his loving. Then he suddenly tightened his arms around your body, his strong hand splaying over your back as he flipped you around to lay on your back beneath him. A small yelp fell from your lips at the sudden movement, the yelp turning into a giggle when he dived into the crook of your neck, his mustache tickling you as he pressed small kisses against your skin.

With a hasty hand he balled the fabric of your nighty in his hands, pushing it up your body to reveal your naked body to him. He sucked a breath through his teeth at the sight, eyes hungry with lust as they raked over your form.

“Need to fuckin’ taste you, sweetheart.” His voice was a low rasp, coated in residual sleep and arousal, “Been thinkin’ about how sweet you taste this whole weekend.”

You couldn’t hold back the whine at the back of your throat at his words, hips bucking by their own accord where he had your legs splayed open over his thighs. Arousal spread like electricity through your body, where it pooled like dripping honey in your tummy.

“Please,” you begged when his fingers found the hem of your panties, his pointer finger dipping beneath the band to run it across your skin.

“Yeah?” he coaxed, “Want me to eat your little pussy, sweet girl?” his finger stretched at the elastic, letting it slap against your skin as he pulled away. Under him you whined, frantic hands finding the back of his neck to pull him closer to you. In your hurry to kiss him, you missed his mouth, clumsily bumping your nose into his instead.

It made him breathe out a shallow chuckle, “Okay, baby, okay. I’ll take care of ya.”

He pulled back from you, your hands around his neck falling to your sides, and softly hitting your mattress. Grabbing at the soft flesh at the back of your thighs, he spread them wider, putting your covered cunt on display for him. His eyes drank in your body, studied how soft and pliant you’d gone from his touch.

You watched his face, his eyes, his lip twitching with a wicked smile when you jumped under his finger, starting to press slow circles down on your covered clit. He dipped his finger lower, caressing your folds over the fabric before he pressed two fingers into your covered hole as far as your panties allowed. You could feel how soaked you already were, your dripping cunt fluttering around nothing when he pulled back.

“Let’s get you out of these, huh?” he said, voice dripping with pity, “My sweet girl’s just beggin’ to be touched, ain’t she?”

To your own surprise you managed to peep out an answer, “Yes.” Your voice came out strangled and begging, your mind clouded over with Joel.

“Yes, that’s right, baby, you’re such a good girl, let me hear you.” He hooked his finger under the elastic, tapping your ass lightly. You lifted up off the mattress, helping him drag your soaked panties down your legs.

Under him you felt your mouth drop open slightly, watching him as he clasped your panties in his hand, his thumb rubbing at the wetness with a cocky smile tugging at the corner of his lips. With his thumb coated in you, he dropped your panties, losing them in the sheets as he brought his attention back on you.

His eyes bored into yours as he lowered himself between your legs pressing soft kisses against your inner thigh. His big hands splayed over the back of your legs, pushing them closer to your chest to putt your naked and dripping cunt back on display. You held your breath as you waited for him to finally touch you where you wanted, but then he hesitated. The air was charged with arousal, his breath fanning over your throbbing clit. A thought of how you might die if he didn’t touch you soon, crossed your mind.

With a desperate whine, your hand tangled in his hair. You didn’t know what to do, so you begged, “Please, Joel?”

His eyes found yours immediately, where he saw how much you needed him, but he needed it in words, “Y’want me to touch you, sweetheart? To eat your pussy?”

“Yes,” the words fell from your lips so fast you almost cut him off, “Please,” you added for good measure.

Your consent was all he wanted. He dipped his head to lick ever so gently at your clit, making you mewl under him, a needy desperate sound, begging for more. When he wrapped his lips around your clit, and sucked, that’s when you turned into a withering moaning mess under him, hips bucking into his mouth, chasing more of the pleasure he was giving you.

Joel hummed against you, the bass of his voice vibrating against your most sensitive spot, pulling you deeper under the blanket of pleasure.

When his hand loosened its grip around the back of your thigh to caress your folds, a moan got caught in your throat. “P-please” you stuttered, dying to have his fingers split you open and coaxing you towards your release.

But Joel removed his fingers, continuing to explore you with his tongue instead. He dipped down, tongue lapping at your folds, tasting your arousal like he told you’d he’d been dying to. With one fat lick up the length of your pussy he took your clit back in his mouth, going back to lapping and circling it just right, coaxing you closer and closer.

“Fuck.”

You were hauling quickly towards your orgasm. Your eyebrows twisted together in a tight frown, fingers gripping and tugging at his hair, your leg close to shaking with the intensity. You were right there on the edge.

Then he abruptly pulled away. The disappointing mewl escaped you on instinct, and Joel laughed. Laughed. Your heart twisted in on itself at the sound.

“W-what?” you muttered, confusion painting your features when he sat up.

Joel grinned down at you, a mischievous glint in his eye as he leaned down to your face and cupped your chin, his thumb rubbing your skin with tenderness.

“Want you to be good f’me, sweet girl, can you do that?”

Your head moved in his hand, a timid nod as you searched his face. “I–I can be good.”

His grin widened, all teeth and crinkles around his eyes. He squeezed your cheeks together lightly, a small pout forming to kiss away.

“Good girl.”

His mustache tickled your cupid’s bow, and you could taste yourself on his tongue, taste how desperate for him you were.

He left you breathless when he pulled away, your body all loose and pliant from his touch, not registering what he was doing until he was back to sitting between your legs. Your eyes raked over his body, his broad shoulders, trailing his happy trail down his torso to his waist, noticing the shape of his hard cock in his briefs, a wet spot staining them where the head was.

Fuck, you wanted him inside you.

Then you noticed his hands, and what he was in them. The dildo, of him. You shifted up the bed in surprise. Your nighty fell down over your chest as you sat up on your elbows, watching him with wide eyes.

He watched you too, turning the dildo in his hand to nudge at your entrance as he leaned forward to hover over your body, a big hand on your chest pushing you down.

“Are you gonna be good?” 

“Joel,” you gasped, feeling your hole flutter in anticipation.

“Are you?” he pressed, rubbing the silicone head slowly up and down your folds, coating it in your arousal.

“Y-yeah, y-yes,” you nodded, face heating from the obscene slick sounds of your arousal.

With a wicked grin, his eyes flicked back to your aching cunt, before he pushed the head inside slowly, feeding your more and more until the dildo was buried inside you. A broken moan fell from your lips, mouth dropping open from the pleasure of being stretched.

“There you go, sweetheart. ‘s big stretch, isn’t it? Doing so good for me, my good girl, honey, my good fuckin’ girl.”

He pushed the toy in and out in shallow thrusts, working you open around the fake cock. It wasn’t the same, but still the stretch was divine. With his eyes glued to your cunt he pulled the dildo all the way out, only the head notched at your entrance, before slowly thrusting in all the way. You whimpered when you felt him nudge at your spot inside, your hand desperately grabbing for his other arm to anchor you from falling over the edge too soon.

“Joel,” you whimpered, “P-please, t-touch m-my–”

Joel picked up his pace, fucking you faster and deeper with the dildo, the obscene squelching sounds of your cunt filled the air between your moans. His grip tightened in your hand, guiding it to hover over your clit.

“Touch your what, honey?” He teased, pressing your fingers down, guiding them in tight circles.

“Ah– fuck,” you whimpered, eyes squeezing shut as you felt the coil in your tummy tighten, and tighten, and tighten.

Then it all became too much. With a broken cry you came, squeezing hard around the fake cock. Joel continued fucking you, a small gush of liquid pouring down over the toy with each thrust, as you pulsed and squirmed around it.

Catching your breath, you came down from your high, while small jolts of pleasure crashed over you, making your legs shake like a leaf in a storm. It was like your ears were ringing, before you realized they were actually ringing.

“This fuckin’ alarm,” Joel muttered, hovering over you to turn it off.

His voice brought you back to earth, as you turned your head to look at the time. Shit, you were gonna be late!

With shaky hands you glided your hand down your cunt to grab at the base of the toy still inside you, “Joel, we’re gonna be late for your meeting,” you murmured, slipping the dildo from your cunt. Everything was sticky and messy between your legs, a big wet stain growing under your ass.

Joel pushed your hand away, like he was scolding you for touching what was his. “We can be a little late, sweetheart,” he said calmly, before ducking down to press a kiss to your clit.

You shifted up the bed, away from his touch, anxiety an endless spiral in your tummy. “No, we can’t, Joel– They told me it’s a pitch for a new movie, you’ll miss out on a big opportunity if you don’t show.”

Between your legs, Joel’s head dropped to your chest, as a pained sigh left his lungs. He went quiet for a beat as you watched the messy curls at the top of his head, then he lifted his head to look at you, “Okay, then.”

You felt bad leaving him hanging as you both got out of bed, his rock-hard cock strained desperately against the fabric of his briefs – just dying to be touched.

“Joel, I-I’m sorry,” you closed the space between you, snaking your arms around him.

“Sweetheart, ya need to stop apologizin’”, he placed a dry kiss to the top of your head, steady hands finding your waist. Your heart swelled in your chest. He made you feel so safe.

You almost muttered another ‘I’m sorry’, before catching yourself, “Okay,” you nodded against his chest. You basked in his touch for another minute, his strong arms around you, breathing in the comforting scent of him – the intoxicating mix of his faded cologne, cigarettes and sex.

“You were enjoyin’ it though, weren’t you?” Joel asked as he pulled away. You could see the cheeky smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he looked down at you, “So tell me, sweetheart... it better’n the real thing?”

“No,” you said, your own teasing smile tickling your lips as you detangled yourself from him, and turned around to head towards the bathroom, “Real thing’s better.”

Suddenly you felt his hands on your hips, and then Joel was pulling you back against him. He pressed himself against you so you could feel how hard he still was, his aching cock barely contained by his briefs.

“Attagirl,” he half-whispered, half-groaned into your ear, breath fanning over your neck and making you shiver. 

“I need a shower,” you said with a giggle, stepping away from him before turning around again, only for Joel to pull you close once more. He found your eyes, his hands barely loosening their grip on your body. You could still feel him against you, his hard cock now pressed against your stomach. “Do you… maybe,” you bit down on your bottom lip, wide eyes searching his face.

“Wanna shower with you?” he helped you with a grin, and you nodded.

Your shower was cramped, too small to fit two people, and even though you had been the one to ask, you still felt nervous under the streaming water. He looked so good; your eyes couldn’t help but trail the water droplets racing down his thick muscles. He watched you too, but more openly, his eyes not afraid to trail down your body – to glide over your tits, down your back, and over the curve of your ass.

And then there was his cock, still hard and leaking, making its presence known between you like a third person. What made it worse was that he didn’t even acknowledge it, just went about washing his body like nothing, pushing back his wet curls as he rinsed your shampoo from his hair.

Did he want you to say something? The thought fluttered in your stomach.

“Um, Joel?” your voice echoed against the tiles.

You watched as he tipped his head forward from under the showerhead, eyes blinking at you as soapsuds hit his broad shoulders and ran down his chest.

“You know– um… I can–”

Jesus Christ! Could you be less sexy.

When he didn’t say anything, you breathed out a nervous sigh, eyes flitting down to his cock, hoping he would take the hint.

And he did.

“You wanna touch my cock, sweet girl?” His whole demeanor shifted.

“Would that– would that be okay?” you said, your teeth catching on your bottom lip.

“More than okay, sweetheart,” he said, with a devilish grin.

You took a few steps closer, a shaky hand landing on his waist while the other hovered between your bodies, right above where his heavy cock twitched in anticipation.

You didn’t know what to do. Well, you did. You’d seen it enough times at work to know, but you’d never actually done it before. Another reminder of just how inexperienced you were when it came to all of this. You looked at him with uncertainty, for guidance, and without uttering a single word, Joel knew what you were asking.

He curled his fingers around your wrist, bringing it up to his face, and spat. Using that tender grip he guided your hand down between your bodies again – the back of your hand brushed against the rough hair of his happy trail – and down to the base of his aching cock.

“There ya go,” he whispered as your fingers wrapped around him, Joel’s spit smearing over his shaft as you moved upwards in an experimenting stroke, “Good girl, just like that,” he hissed through his teeth.

You tilted your head to watch his face. Watched how his eyes were so fixated on your hand wrapped around him as you began to slowly stroke his cock, familiarizing yourself with the weight and feel of him in your hand. You didn’t miss the way his breathing shifted, releasing a sound you’d never heard come from his lips before. A whimper.

“Am–am I doing okay?” you asked, your eyes following his down to your hand wrapped around him. He was so big in your hand, your fingers struggling to meet around the girth of him.

He hissed out a strained laugh. “Yeah, baby, you’re doing so good– massage the head for me a little,” Joel groaned.

You did as you were told, bringing your hand up to the tip with a tug, squeezing out a pearl of precum. It dripped down over your hand, your thumb skating over the sensitive head, and smearing it all over.

“Shit,” Joel hissed, “keep doin’ that, sweetheart, bein’ so good f’me,” he praised, encouraging you.

You’d never seen Joel like this before. So at your mercy– at anyone’s mercy – always the one to take charge. But now he was falling apart from your touch. He encouraged you further as his breath got heavier. You sped up the strokes over his cock, and his body slumped into yours, face buried in the crook of your neck, as he whispered breathy babblings of praise into your skin. A glowing feeling of pride grew in your chest as you brought him closer and closer to his release.

“I’m close, baby,” he whimpered in your ear, “don’t fuckin’ stop.”

So you didn’t.

With your hand tight around his cock, you quickened your pace, tracing your thumb over his slit just like he’d told you to do earlier. A slick noise of spit and precum echoed against your bathroom tiles. His thighs tensed, his hand grabbed at your waist to pin you to his body, and you knew he was right on the edge.

“Fuck, I’m comin’.”

With a string of praising curses, he came apart in your hand. His thighs clenched, his heavy balls tightening as cum spurted from his tip in ribbons over your hand. The bass of his voice vibrated against your skin, as you continued working him through his high, slicking up your hand and fingers even more.

You squeezed him until there was only a small dribble pearling at his tip. A white stream of cum ran down his cock and down to his balls, dripping down onto the tiles of your shower floor. And then it was too much, and Joel hissed, lifting his head from the crook of your neck to dab your hand away.

He didn’t say anything, only grabbing your face with both hands, crashing his lips against yours in a desperate kiss. With your hand messy from his release, you didn’t know where to touch him, opting to grab at his elbow with your other hand to steady yourself.

Out in the hallway, your phone rang, forcing you to breathlessly pull away. With a sorry smile, you ran your messy hand under the showerhead before quickly pulling at the shower curtain.

The phone rang loudly as you tiptoed down the hallway. Water droplets ran down your skin, leaving a trail of dark spots on the carpet. Your hand clung to the towel you’d wrapped around yourself while the other hurried to answer the phone.

“Hello?” you sang.

“Hi, sweetie, it’s your uncle,” a gruff voice answered.

“Oh, hi,” you said, leaning against the wall.

Down the hall your bathroom door opened, steam framing Joel’s body as he stepped out naked as the day he was born, with a towel resting over his shoulders. His heavy cock soft between his strong thighs– it was like a scene straight out of a porno, one he’d probably starred in. He caught your eye, and smiled, making his way towards you as he brought the towel up to dry his hair, his biceps flexing with the effort.

“What was that?” you stuttered, completely missing what your uncle had said on the other end.

“Almost hung up on ya, I said,” your uncle repeated.

“Sorry, I was just getting out of the shower.”

“I was just calling to say I’m driving a Corvette down to LA in a couple of days for a client. Was thinking I’d take you out to dinner– catch up– make sure you’re not getting up to any trouble down there,” he laughed.

His tone was lighthearted, but you couldn’t help but cringe. The trouble in question reaching his hand out to trace a drop trailing down your exposed collarbone, ducking down to place a teasing kiss to your skin.

“D-dinner sounds nice,” you managed to choke out, “Um, I know a nice Italian place down in Santa Monica.”

“Sounds great, sweetie! I’ll call ya after I’ve dropped off the car Thursday afternoon,” your uncle’s static voice replied.

“Thursday afternoon,” you repeated, “Ok, see you then!”

“So…” Joel started, his arms snaking their way around your form. “I ain’t the only man who wants a piece of ya,” he joked, after you’d hung up the phone,

“That was my uncle, Joel,” you let him know, your body melting against his touch.

“He’s takin’ you to dinner?” he queried.

“Yeah,” you nodded, “he’s driving a car down here for work, so he wanted to see me.”

Joel hummed, dropping his head to brush his lips over yours as his hand splayed over your waist slid down to the curve of your ass.

“Nonono,” you chuckled, pulling away, “Joel, we’re already late as is!”

“So what,” Joel groaned, pulling you back for another kiss, hands tightening their grip on your ass, before trailing soft kisses to the corner of your mouth, “We could stay in ya know... enjoy the real thing.”

Joel’s kisses continued along the line of your jaw, teeth grazing your skin.

“As tempting as that sounds,” you let out through a small groan as you felt his tongue tickle that spot under your jaw, “We can’t cancel this meeting.”

Joel’s lips stopped their descent towards your neck, and he took a breath, the force of it tickling your skin, before he lifted his head, lips grazing across your jaw as he kissed the corner of your mouth again.

“Later,” you promise him, eyes looking into his. Joel’s smile was wistful, another small sigh escaping through his nostrils before he brushed his lips over yours.

“Later.”

“Let’s get started? Or do we want some coffees before we start?” Ronald asked from his seat at the head of the table.

You were seated in a chair in the corner, the cigarette smoke hung low over the room. In your lap your notebook rested, cracked spine opened to a random blank page while your fingers fiddled with your pen.

All the big important men from VCA were here, eager to finally work with the infamous Joel Packer on their new big-budget project. The last couple of years had been big for Joel, multiple magazine photoshoots, longer features and obviously modeling for a sextoy, but this film would be his biggest opportunity. It would bring in a lot of money, and Ronald knew it. He couldn’t hide the dollar signs in his eyes behind his ‘friendly’ grin.

“Ey, sweetheart!” Ronald raised his voice. You lifted your gaze from your notebook, curious as to what he was yelling about.

“Yeah, you!” He looked straight at you, a hand waving you towards him. Did he forget your name? You wouldn’t put it past him.

Leaving your notebook and pen in your chair you walked over to him, hands wringing behind your back as you stood behind Joel where he sat to Ronald’s right. He looked at you with impatience, a crude finger motioning you closer.

“Why don’t you go get us all some coffees, sweetie?” he spat out the order, his sour breath hitting you in your face.

“Um, uh,” you looked to Joel for help. This wasn’t your job; this was a job for an intern. It was important for you to be here, to take notes, to know what arrangements needed to be done, and which people to call.

“Um, uh,” Ronald parroted, “just do it– isn’t it what I’m paying you for?”

It wasn’t, but now everyone was looking at you. Everyone except for Joel. His gaze bored into the teak in front of him, fingers tightly pinched around a cigarette. With no help from Joel, you held your tongue and muttered a “Yes, sir,” to Ronald before you turned on heels.

“Alright! I wanna start by introducing Cheryl here, making her film debut alongside Joel–” you heard Ronald start as you slipped through the door of the meeting room.

Outside the meeting room, you were met with a brown hallway, identical to the left and right. Wood paneling clad the walls, and you couldn’t help your eyes from peeking through the glass partition walls of other meeting rooms as you made your way down the hall. Everything looked the same. You turned a corner, and you swore you’d been there before. After walking for what felt like a small eternity, you made it to a break room with a small kitchenette.

The coffee in the pot looked old and stale, and you poured it out in the sink. As you waited for the fresh pot to brew you searched through the cupboards for a coffee carafe. The cupboards of the kitchenette were pretty empty, only filled with mugs and drinking glasses. With a sigh you kneeled to look through the cabinet below the sink.  You tried your best to be fast, not wanting to miss anything important. Finally, you found what you were looking for. With fresh coffee in one hand, and paper cups in the other, you made your way back down a hallway you hoped would bring you back to the meeting.

A couple of wrong turns later you let out a sigh of relief as you peaked Joel through the glass partition wall of the meeting room. This better be good enough for Ronald, you thought as you opened the door, not bothering to knock.

“And I think that’s about it,” one of the men opposite Joel said as you placed the coffee and paper cups on the table, “We’ll break for lunch and go ahead with the chemistry test later today.”

Did you really just miss the whole meeting?

“Sounds great,” Ronald said, pushing his chair out, and standing to his feet to shake the hands of the men from VCA. Then the rest of the room came alive as people got up from their seats and gathering their things. In front of you a chair bumped into you, pushing you a little off balance.

“Oh! Sorry– didn’t see you there.”

It was Cheryl, Joel’s new co-star. She was young, just turned twenty-one if you remembered correctly, and gorgeous. Her blonde hair, curled to perfection, cascaded down her back. Her light blue dress clung tightly to her body, accentuating her curves while the deep v-neck showed off her cleavage.

You shook your head and put on a smile, muttering an “It’s okay,” as you stepped out of her way, and shifted closer to Joel. He was busy gathering the papers spread out in front of him on the table, tapping them lightly against the teak before gathering them in his hands, turning towards you and Cheryl.

When you didn’t make a move to leave, Cheryl cleared her throat, widening her eyes at Joel as they flickered towards you. Your heart sunk in your chest. It didn’t take a genius to take her hint – you knew when you weren’t wanted.

“I’ll uh… I’ll wait for you down in the reception,” you muttered to Joel, “Let me know what you want for lunch, and I’ll get you something.” Before he could say anything, you turned around to leave, grabbing your notebook and pen.

You knew you shouldn’t have looked back as you made your way out the door, but you did. The cold stone in your chest sank lower as you watched them. Cheryl’s body curled towards Joel as they talked, her hand landing on his bicep as she let out a giggly laugh. It made your heart sting, but maybe not as much as the ache of watching Joel’s bright smile, the one he so often gave you.

Over fifteen minutes later, Joel finally walked into the reception where you waited for him. You were hard to miss where you sat on one of the couches, reading a magazine, the only person occupying the space.

“Whatcha readin’?” he asked, slumping down next to you, so close his arm brushed against yours.

You couldn’t watch his bright eyes, and the cheeky smile tugging at his lips. So, you held up one of the porn magazines you’d grabbed off the coffee table, blocking his view of your face, substituting it with the woman adorning the front and posing seductively to the camera, showing off the biggest boobs you’d ever seen.

“Industry news,” you shrugged.

You earned yourself a chuckle, “Anythin’ interestin’?”

“Not really,” you sighed, quickly shutting the magazine, and throwing it haphazardly on the table.

You could feel his warmth beside you, his broad frame, and strong arms. The same arms who’d held you so close this morning. Still, you didn’t look at him, your gaze falling to your fiddling hands in your lap. A piece of skin around your thumb had come loose, and it burned as you pulled at it.

“Um…” you started, still watching your hands, “What’s the plan for lunch? You want me to go down to that deli you like– get you a sandwich?”

Joel’s arm brushed against you as he shifted in his seat, bucking his hips slightly to fish out his pack of cigarettes from his back pocket. “Ain’t no need to do that for me, sweetheart,” he said, his voice slightly muffled by the cigarette between his lips.

“Well, it’s kinda my job,” you mumbled, your face pulling up into a slight frown as you ripped the loose skin around your thumb.

“Yeah– but,” Joel drew a breath of his cigarette.

Now you looked at him, eyebrows pulled tight in a real frown, “But what?”

He watched you, eyes dancing over your face as he took another drag, releasing the smoke out the corner of his mouth.

“Nothin’.”

You couldn’t interpret his face with the way he was looking at you, almost as he was searching for something. A silence grew between you – it was ugly and festering, like a canyon had grown between you – it was something you’d never felt with Joel before.

“A sandwich sounds nice,” he finally spoke across the silence, and you nodded.

“Um– can I borrow your car?” you asked, clearing your throat of your anxiety.

“Yeah, sweetheart.” It was like your question had woken him.

Joel had driven you both into work today, your car sitting pretty in its parking space outside your apartment complex. He rested his half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray on the table before he fished his car keys from his jeans pocket and handed them to you.

“They have me set up in a trailer out on the lot next door– I’ll wait for ya there, alright?” The hand handing you his keys locked around yours, caging them between your hands.

You squeezed his hand, the familiar weight of it in your hand, the tenderness in which he held you, made you feel a little better. Shrinking the deep canyon between you to a ravine.

“Um, why exactly?” you asked, eyes glued to your intertwined hands.

“Shit– sorry,” Joel shook his head and shifted closer to you, his knee brushing against yours, “they want me and Cheryl to have a chemistry test before they go ahead with signin’ the contracts. It’s nothin’ big or anythin’– just a blowjob.”

Just a blowjob.

You nodded slowly. It was just a blowjob, but it was a blowjob from Cheryl. Cheryl who was younger with the perfect body. Cheryl who made him smile and laugh. Cheryl who could give him a blowjob, and not some sorry excuse of a handjob.

“Oh, okay,” you peeped, loosening your grip around his hand, clasping the keys in your hand.

You got up from the couch before he could say anything more, “I’ll go get you your lunch then.”

His cigarette resting in the ashtray had burned out, like your conversation with Joel. You bent slightly to grab your purse when his hands clasped around your wrist, bringing your attention back on him.

“’s everythin’ alright?” he asked you as he got up from the couch as well, closing the space between you.

Your lips pulled into a smile, one you hoped was convincing, “Yeah! Why wouldn’t it?”

His other hand came up to cup your cheek gently, shifting your face to look at him. “’s just for work, you know,” he told you.

Your head was nodding even before he’d finished talking, your face still pulled tight in a smile, “Yeah, Joel, I know.”

“Okay,” he whispered and leaned closer. You shifted your face in his palm, his lips hitting your other cheek in a short peck before you were pulling away. His fingers like a bracelet around your wrist, fell heavy to his side.

“See you in a little bit,” you told him before pushing the door to the reception open and stepping outside.

Some forty minutes later you were knocking on a trailer door with the sign ‘Joel Packer’ hanging on the front. In your other hand you were balancing two coffees and a bag with two sandwiches. You knocked again when nothing happened, scared you’d shown up to the wrong trailer for a second, even with the sign telling you, you were in the right place.

“Joel? I have your lunch.”

“Come in,” he answered almost immediately.

You opened the trailer door and stepped inside, careful not to spill the coffees all over the carpeted floor of his trailer as you balanced everything. With the door closed you turned around, eyes scanning the cramped room for Joel.

He was laying on the couch, one hand down the front of his pants where he palmed himself over his briefs – a lazy smile resting over his features as he took you in.

“Oh! Sorry,” you quickly looked away, scurrying to place his food on the nearest table.

Behind you Joel got up from the couch, crossing the small space between you to wrap his arms around your body, and press his front against your ass. You jumped in his grasp, your hands finding his where they rested around your waist.

“Stop apologizin’” he whispered in your ear, his teeth catching on your earlobe, “was just gettin’ ready, baby,” his breath was hot against the column of your neck, and you felt his cock grow against your ass. “Ain’t gonna have any trouble gettin’ hard now though,” he chuckled.

“Joel,” you whined, the sound pathetic at the back of your throat.

“Yes, baby, let me hear ya,” you could feel the bass in his voice vibrate against your skin.

His hands spread over your body, drinking you in with his touch, grabbing at your breast while pressing tender kisses to your neck. You melted against him, body soft and pliant. In an instant you were back in your memories from this morning, and you couldn’t fight the whimper from falling from your lips. With closed eyes your memories mixed with your present. Images of how he’d kissed you, touched you, and taken care of you this morning blended with the firm press of his body against yours and his calloused hands exploring you; like how you could still see your reflection in rippling water.

“Joel,” you tried again.

“I know, my sweet girl,” he cooed.

Behind you he bucked his hips against your ass, the bulge of his hard cock splitting your cheeks. You felt your arousal wet your panties, an ache of anticipation settling in your core.

“Fuck, sweetheart– wish it was you getting on your knees for me later.” He whispered his filthy words in your ear with another buck of his hips. “Wanna feel your tight little throat around my cock as you choke on it.”

His confession made a nervousness intertwine itself with your blinding arousal. You turned around in his arms, your face nuzzled into the dip where his neck met his collarbone, “I-I’ve never done that before.” Your confession was barely a whisper, the words muffled into his skin.

His grip tightened around you, and you felt the way his body moved under your cheek, a comforting hand landed carefully at the back of your neck. His jaw and cheek bumped against the top of your head as he dipped down to your face and his breath changed like he was about to say something, but then was interrupted by a hollow knock on the trailer door.

“We’re ready for you on set in fifteen minutes, Mr. Miller,” a voice called.

With the knock the spell was broken. You untangled yourself from his embrace, a shy smile ghosting over your lips as you stepped away.

“You should eat.”

Again, you’d agreed to watch him film. Joel had convinced you on his way out the trailer door, his hand resting at the small of your back as he led you towards the set. It was a small shoot – only Joel and Cheryl, the cameraman, the sound guy, a couple people from VCA, Ronald, and you. In the time you’d worked for Joel, you couldn’t remember a set feeling this intimate (not that you usually stayed to watch– not unless he explicitly asked).

The only goal for the scene was to find out if Joel and Cheryl worked well together on camera – hence no specific storyline or roles they were supposed to act out. Joel was getting his dick sucked, but other than that they were free to take the scene whichever way they wanted.

The room buzzed with quiet conversation as the cameraman got the camera and film ready. Joel was already seated on the couch where the scene would take place. His legs were spread wide, his hard bulge on display as he leisurely smoked a cigarette. Cheryl had taken up the seat beside him, leaning her elbow on the back and resting her head in her hands. They were talking, but you couldn’t hear from where you stood in the corner. Every now and then Joel’s eyes would search for yours, meeting them for a moment as a small smile spread across his lips, before they would flick back to Cheryl, joining their conversation again.

A few minutes later, the cameraman gave the okay to start shooting, making the rest of the set settle down. Joel still smoked his cigarette, so you took it upon yourself to be a good assistant and walk over to him with an ashtray.

A smile spread across Joel’s face when he saw you approach. His arm came up to rest over the back of the couch, his body opening to you with curiosity. You gave him a small smile in return, presenting the ashtray to him with a teasing raise of your eyebrow.

“Just ‘nother drag, sweetheart,” he teased, placing his cigarette back between his lips.

“Nuh-uh,” you chuckled, stealing his cigarette from his mouth with two pinched fingers.

The rest of the smoke in his lungs came out in small chuckles, his hands gathering in his lap as he leaned slightly towards you, moony eyes watching you. He was about to say something before,

“Quiet on set,” the cameraman interrupted with a shout.

You wanted to do something. Cup his cheek, kiss him, anything to just touch him, but you couldn’t. You needed to keep it professional. Instead, you gave him another small smile before you walked back to your previous spot in the corner.

“And… action!”

With the shout of the cameraman, the film was rolling, and the shoot had started.

Leaning against the wall again, you crossed your arms over your chest as you watched Cheryl sink to her knees between Joel’s spread legs. On her lips she wore an innocent pout while her hands caressed his thighs.

“Wanna put my mouth on it,” she said in a sweet voice.

“Yeah, baby? What do you want in your pretty little mouth?” Joel’s voice was deep and coaxing, his hand cupping Cheryl’s chin where his thumb ghosted over her skin.

Cheryl tilted her face down slightly, eyes big and wide as she looked up at him through her lashes.

“Your cock, sir,” she pouted.

You still didn’t know much of the plot to the porno they were shooting, but it was clear that they were going in a specific direction. It wasn’t unusual for Joel to slip into a more dominant character in the pornos he played in, but this new element of innocence from his scene partner wasn’t something he often did.

“You want me to teach you how to suck cock like a proper whore, sweet girl?”

Sweet girl.

You watched how Cheryl’s head nodded in his palm, teeth catching on her bottom lip, and a wicked smile tugged at the corners of Joel’s mouth. It made you shift your weight, arms tightening around your body.

“Alright…” Joel’s thumb ghosted over her bottom lip, “Take my cock out,” he ordered, pulling his hand away.

Cheryl obediently did as he said, her hands messing with the buttons on his jeans. Joel wasn’t wearing anything underneath – it was easier that way, he’d told you earlier in his trailer. Cheryl gasped as Joel’s hard cock sprung free. Her eyes wide as she watched how his cock slapped against his lower stomach.

“’s big isn’t it, sweet girl?”

Again.

Your teeth caught on your bottom lip, pulling at the loose skin with a burning ache.

“So big, sir,” Cheryl agreed, nodding her head.

“Too big for your little mouth, sweetheart?” Joel teased, taking himself in his hand, pulling gentle strokes up and down.

Cheryl shook her head again, “No, sir! I can take it!”

Joel huffed out a laugh at that, his grin growing wider. “Yes, you can, slut.”

His degrading words pulled a moan from Cheryl, and not a second later her mouth was on him. Joel laughed again, another huffing chuckle leaving him as his heavy hand came to rest at the top of her head, guiding her down on him.

“That’s it, slut, suck that big cock– take it all the way down that whore throat,” he encouraged, head tipping back in pleasure. The wet sounds echoing through the room were obscene, pornographic. Sticky strings of spit clung to Cheryl’s chin and dripped down to her breasts where she’d tugged at the V of her neckline to expose them.

“Feels so good, my sweet girl– just like that,” Joel moaned, eyes squeezed shut with a look of pleasure coating his features like he’d ascended to heaven.

My sweet girl.

The room spun, and you pressed your back harder against the wall, like it would fall down over you if you didn’t press up against it. Or maybe it was you who would cave in.

That pet name. That fucking pet name.

You needed to step out if you wanted to breathe, your throat tightening up as your thoughts drifted; to this morning in your bed and then again in the shower, to the two of you in that motel bed, to Joel’s hand on your knee as he’d knelt in front of you by the pool in Pismo Beach. Burning tears pressed behind your eyelids. You couldn’t watch any more, couldn’t hear any more, you couldn’t.

As quietly as you could you stepped out of the set. Your eyes pinched together in a squint as the hot LA afternoon sun blazed down on you. The air hot and stuffy, but not as suffocating as you felt inside.

Why did you feel this way? Jealous of another woman?

Joel wasn’t your boyfriend… at least not in so many words, but after Pismo Beach and his confession, he felt like yours. Someone you can’t help but fall in love with. That’s what he’d told you.

You couldn’t keep your thoughts from spiraling. Fall in love with? How could he be in love with you? You’d only had sex twice, never been on a proper date. You didn’t know who he was outside work. His touch and his kisses felt good, but how could you know if it was more than that – more than just something physical. He’d never called you his girlfriend. Why did you have any right to be upset right now?

This was his job. You knew that before you got involved with him. It wasn’t a problem for you, you’d told him so in the job interview. You’d spoken the truth at the time, but now you weren’t so sure.

Numbed by your realization, you stepped back inside. The scene you were met with only affirmed your thoughts.

You couldn’t give him what he wanted.

They’d moved positions. Cheryl’s head hung off the armrest, perfect boobs bouncing beneath Joel as he fucked her throat. It was lewd, and dirty and plain vulgar. With every thrust of his hips Joel earned himself a quiet gag. Under him, her body was completely at his mercy. He pulled back every once in a while, to let her breath, before plunging his hard cock back down her throat. Ropes of bubbling spit escaped her mouth and ran down her face.

Joel was completely in control, using her throat purely for his own pleasure. Groans and moans spilled from his lips in between filthy praises and ‘good girl’’s. Cheryl’s body squirmed under him, her hand rubbing quickly at her clit under her dress, edging herself towards her orgasm.

This is what Joel wanted. Someone like Cheryl– someone who was confident and skilled, someone who knew what she was doing.

You watched Joel’s thrusts turn sloppy, and that now familiar pinch in his brow let you know he was about to bust his load. With a quick motion he jerked his cock back, taking his throbbing and sensitive cock in hand, fisting himself quickly. Cheryl gasped for air, before she withered with her orgasm.

Joel groaned louder than you’d ever heard him before, his eyes flicking up from Cheryl’s squirming body to find yours. A smile spread across his face then, and then he was spilling over his knuckles and painting Cheryl’s face with his release.

“Shit,” Joel panted, coming down. His hand squeezed the last few drops of his cum out of his cock and onto Cheryl’s tongue.

“Aaaand– cut,” the camera man yelled.

Joel dropped the act immediately, stepping away from a ruined Cheryl as his cock went soft in his hand.

“Shit,” Cheryl groaned, wiping some of the mix of spit and Joel’s cum from her face.

“You okay?” Joel asked, tender hands helping her sit upright.

Cheryl giggled sweetly, big smile blossoming over her features, “Okay? More than okay, Joel– fucking amazing.”

As the gentle lover you knew him to be, Joel helped Cheryl clean up her face after getting handed a towel, but not before assessing the picture he’d painted– which wasn’t much, not compared the cumshots he usually gave out.  

“If I knew I’d be filmin’ today I wouldn’t have jerked of this morning,” he laughed, wiping her face.

It wasn’t funny.

part three -> here

i hope this was okay? and that you liked this! <3 as always feedback as a comment, in the tags, as an ask or reply is very much appreciated, and they make me super happy! <3

[fanficapologist]

Of Dragons and Maelstroms

Themes and Warnings: slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood, violence, explicit language, sexual violence, period-typical misogyny, sexual themes, smut, tension, marriage, jealousy, pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, attempted sexual assault, breastfeeding, major character death, divergent timelines

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood/Game of Thrones characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Chapter Fifty-Eight

One day before the funeral of Jaehaerys. The little body of the lost babe had also been sent to the Sept to be viewed by mourners before the following day, when both bodies would be cremated by the Kings dragon, Sunfyre, on a cliff at the Kingswood. It was a service Maera could not wait for to be over, in order to seek some closure and attempt to move forward in her life.

All members of the royal family were expected to attend the cremation. Helaena was getting frequent visits from Maester Orwyle and seemed able to attend, given she had adequate pain relief to cope with the after effects of losing her child. She was still refusing visitors and, while her screaming fits had ceased, she returned to spending most of her time staring out of the window, muttering to herself as tears streamed down her face.

Even Daeron, the youngest Targaryen brother, would be returning to Kings Landing on dragon-back for the funeral, yet only for a day as his dragon, Tessarion, was a formidable tool in the war effort. What Maera thought was strange was that the children, two year old Maelor and four year old Jaehaera, despite their recent trauma, would also be expected to attend. Maera was sure this was another political ploy from the Hand, but daren’t say anything to the other members of the family.

Hearing reports from her spies, Maera was relieved to know updates about her niece and nephew. Two-year-old Maelor seemed to be recovering swiftly, perhaps due to his young age which shielded him from comprehending the gravity of the situation. Despite being noted as more restless in the evenings, he returned to his usual playful self during the day, seemingly undeterred by the recent events.

In contrast, four-year-old Jaehaera was navigating her recovery differently. The trauma had left a deeper impact on her, rendering her mute and diminishing her appetite. Even her favorite toys and the attempts of her nursery maids couldn't coax a response from her. The profound effects of the ordeal lingered in the silence that enveloped her, creating a stark contrast to the lively and expressive child she once was.

Maera, deeply concerned for Jaehaera's well-being, observed a worrying parallel between the little girl's withdrawal and her mother, Helaena. Seeing Jaehaera cutting herself off from the world ignited a determination in Maera to prevent the child from succumbing to inner demons that echoed her mother's struggles. With a resolute mindset, Maera chose to spend the morning with Jaehaera, determined to coax her out of her shell and ensure that history didn't repeat itself.

On that cloudy autumn day, the beach took on a muted, tranquil ambiance. The sand stretched along the shoreline, softened by the overcast sky. Low tide revealed intricate patterns in the wet sand, remnants of the sea's gentle retreat. In the distance, beach caves stood, their dark openings hinting at hidden mysteries within. The waves, subdued by the season, whispered as they lapped against the shore, producing a soothing melody that echoed along the coastline. The cloudy sky cast a gentle, diffused light, painting the scene with a subdued palette of grays and blues, creating an atmosphere of calm contemplation on the deserted beach.

Maera walked beside little Jaehaera, with a cluster of guards not far behind them, the two figures moving in tandem along the cloudy autumn beach. Holding the small girl's hand, Maera felt a sense of silent companionship. Even though Jaehaera remained reticent, Maera found solace in the fact that the child had agreed to spend this time together. Both were dressed in black mourning dresses that billowed slightly in the breeze, and light cloaks shielded them from the chill of the windy beachfront. The somber attire mirrored the heavy emotions that lingered, yet the quiet unity between them became a source of mutual support amidst the echoes of grief.

Looking back at their footprints in the sand, Maera found the walk to be a healing balm for herself as well. The recent traumatic events, witnessing Jaehaerys' lifeless body and Helaena's heartbreaking loss of the baby, had left her in a state of disarray. Her appetite waned, and the burden of fatigue settled heavily in her muscles. Mood swings, oscillating between fleeting moments of happiness and deep depression, cast a shadow over her usual resilience.

Being near the sea, with the rhythmic sounds of the waves, brought a sense of comfort to Maera. The familiarity of the beach and the reminder of her home in the Rainwood became a source of solace amidst the storm of emotions. The walk along the shoreline provided a quiet respite, a moment for Maera to breathe and find some grounding in the midst of the turmoil that had disrupted the fabric of her usual self.

“Look at the seashells, Jaehaera,” Maera pointed to a collection of shells scattered along the sand. “Do you think we can find one with a little crab inside?”

Jaehaera stayed silent, her gaze fixed on the sand. Unperturbed, Maera continued, “And what about those seabirds? They are so high up in the sky, they look like they could be dragons, don’t they?”

The child remained silent, her eyes flitting between the sand and the distant waves as Maera tried to reach her once again. “Do you like the ocean, Jaehaera? I always find it soothing. It reminds me of my home in Rainwood, and when I was a little girl.”

Jaehaera kept her silence, but Maera didn’t let it dampen her spirits. Undeterred, Maera decided to share a piece of her own story, hoping it might resonate with the little girl.

"You know, Jaehaera," Maera began softly, "when I was just about your age, I lost my two older twin brothers." She paused, observing the child's reaction. Jaehaera's eyes flickered with curiosity as she looked up at Maera. Sensing a spark of engagement, Maera continued, "Laethan and Vaeron. They were a year older than me. We used to play by the beach near Rain House, just like you and I are doing now.”

Jaehaera looked up at Maera, a spark of curiosity in her eyes. Maera went on, “They got sick, sweet girl. A terrible illness called the pox took them away. It was just after my mother had died as well.” The weight of the memories lingered in Maera’s gaze, but she pressed on, sensing a connection forming between them.

Jaehaera’s attention remained fixed on Maera, the silence now a bridge between them rather than a barrier. “It was a difficult time, but I still remember them. When I walk by the sea, I think of them. The sound of the waves, the salty breeze, it is as if they are with me, watching over."

Jaehaera's gaze remained fixed on Maera, a glimmer of understanding in her eyes. Maera gently touched Jaehaera's shoulder and spoke gently, "I know you miss Jaehaerys, sweet one. And that is okay. You may find something that reminds you of him, something that will make you smile when you think of him."

Their steps continued along the beach, the rhythmic sound of waves providing a backdrop to the shared moment between Maera and the little girl, both carrying the weight of their losses in their own way.

The pair had ended up on the far side of the shore, near a collection of rocks and caves. Yet Maera found herself drawn to the largest one.The sea cave, carved by the relentless tides, possessed a natural grandeur. Its entrance arched like a gaping maw, revealing the hidden depths within. The jagged rocks surrounding the cave bore witness to the ceaseless dance between the sea and the shore. As Maera and Jaehaera neared, Maera noticed a small group of dragon-keepers gathered near the cave. Their attire and equipment hinted at their profession, with a large stick in hand, sturdy leathers and weathered cloaks designed for the challenges of handling dragons.

Among the group, Maera recognized Vovnik, one of the dragon-keepers she had encountered before, when Ēbrion was first discovered to be residing in the network of sea caves. Vovnik, with a seasoned understanding of dragon behavior, had also deduced that Ēbrion must have dwelled within the caves for an extended period. The dragon’s choice to remain hidden was attributed to its size, similar to Vhagar, which would have drawn attention if it ventured beyond the shadows of the caves.

The dragon had departed from its island home for reasons unknown, now choosing to linger on the shoreline of the Capital. The dragon-keepers closely monitored Ēbrion, a wild dragon with little trust for human interaction. His unpredictable nature had led to fatal encounters, as he had killed a few keepers and injured many more.

As the princesses approached the dragon-keeper elder, he executed a deep bow of respect, causing Maera to smile, still unused to such formality.

“Imastan se dyni nykeēdrosa ruartan ao, Vovnik?”Does the beast still evade you, Vovnik? she asked with a playful smile.

Vovnik, with a weathered face marked by the rigors of his trade, rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Nyke emagon dōrī rhēdan nykeā ziksos zaldrīzes. Ziry jāhor kirine gūrogon se havor īlon maghan yn daor he nykeā gūrēntan isse bodmagho rȳ ry,” I have never encountered such a stubborn dragon. It will happily take the food we provide but does not show an interest in training at all, he grumbled, gesturing towards the sea cave where Ēbrion, the wild dragon, resided.

Maera couldn’t help but giggle. In truth, she had become quite taken with the beast. She was fascinated when she first spotted him arriving on the beach many moons ago, but since coming face to face with him, her curiosity had only grown. She felt a deep sense of empathy toward Ēbrion, recognizing the drastic shift from a solitary life to constant exposure to humans. The dragon, seemingly alone in its newfound environment, had forged a unique connection with Vhagar, a companion of similar size. And even then, Maera had observed their relationship blow hot and cold.

Despite the unpredictability and potential danger, Maera found herself charmed by the magnificent beast. Her Targaryen bloodline, coupled with the stories her mother often shared about dragons, had kindled a fascination within her. Maera had noticed Ēbrion's appearances during times of stress, such as her wedding day, and felt a sense of gratitude for the unexpected omen. It was an odd feeling. Although unfamiliar with this peculiar sense of reassurance, Maera found solace in the majestic creature’s presence, a silent companion in moments of upheaval.

“Nyke olvie qūvyr syt zirȳla. Lo nyke ēdan nykeā lyka glaeson gōvilirion se rhaenagon nykēla qrillāettan ondoso ābrar nyke, daor sagon biare iā.” I feel quite sorry for him. If I had a peaceful life underground and suddenly found myself surrounded by people I found irritating, I would not be happy either. Maera proposed, smiling down at Jaehaera, who was still tightly clutched at her hand.

Vovnik sighed, a grizzled expression on his face. “Skoros ziry jorrāelagon iksos nykeā kipagīros, nykeā letagon. Mirtys qilōni kostagon gūrēñis zirȳla. Lo nykeā issaros issarys, pōnta līs sagon nykeā sētan naejot sagon pālegon rūsīr.” What he needs is a rider, a bond. Someone who can tame him. If such a person exists, they must be a force to be reckoned with indeed.

As Maera hummed in response to Vovnik’s words, the ground beneath them began to quake. The tremors intensified, revealing the unmistakable pattern of giant footsteps. A deep, low roar reverberated through the walls of the sea cave’s entrance, echoing ominously. Jaehaera clutched onto Maera’s skirts, seeking refuge from the unexpected tumult. Maera’s heart, however, beat with a mix of anticipation and excitement as the source of the disturbance became apparent.

Out of the darkness within the sea cave, Ēbrion emerged with a breathtaking grandeur. His colossal head, adorned with large horns, rose into view, framed by the ominous darkness behind him. The orange glow of his eyes held a hypnotic intensity, a stark contrast to the deep blue and black scales that adorned his majestic form. His impressive teeth and the sheer enormity of his presence created a surreal tableau against the backdrop of the cave’s shadows.

The dragon-keepers hastened to the Princesses' sides as the colossal figure of Ēbrion loomed overhead. However, to their surprise, Maera calmly gestured for them to remain composed. In that moment, an unspoken assurance seemed to envelop her, dispelling any immediate sense of threat.

The dragon's massive pupils expanded, resembling the vast expanse of the night sky, suggesting a state of relaxation. A plume of smoke billowed from his nostrils as Ēbrion snorted, and then, in a surprisingly gentle gesture, he lowered his head right in front of Maera. Murmurs of uncertainty spread among the dragon-keepers as they observed this unusual interaction.

“Shhh, lykirī Ēbrion,” Maera cooed, her green eyes sparkling with wonder at the beast before here. Remarkably, the dragon began emanating soft bellows from his chest, akin to the purring of a cat.

Undeterred, Maera extended her hand to the dragon's snout, just above his mouth. The dragon's scales, as smooth as ivory and radiating heat, met her touch. Grinning, Maera petted the colossal beast, using the same hand that had once revealed her blood to him. As Maera looked down at Jaehaera, she discovered the little girl’s purple eyes wide with excitement and a small, budding smile gracing her lips. This sight filled Maera’s heart with a hopeful warmth for the child.

She tilted her head in curiosity before asking Jaehaera, “Would you like to touch him?” In response, the four-year-old nodded eagerly. Maera, with a careful yet tender touch, lifted Jaehaera into her arms, cradling her on her hip. Joining their hands together, Maera guided Jaehaera’s small hand to rest on the smooth surface of Ēbrion’s nose.

In response, the mighty dragon blinked slowly, an expression of profound contentment. The tranquility that emanated from him enveloped the Princesses in a serene moment. Maera couldn’t help but smile down at Jaehaera, whose rosy cheeks bore witness to the happiness that had blossomed within her.

As Maera enjoyed the moment of connection with her niece and the dragon, she noticed a hushed conversation in the background. Vovnik and the other dragon-keepers were engaged in a murmured exchange in High Valyrian. Straining to hear, Maera turned to ask Vovnik about it, but before she could, a soft voice reached her ears.

"He’s so warm," Jaehaera spoke, the words carrying a sweet melody that had been absent for a week. The sound of her niece’s voice brought tears to Maera's eyes, and she fought to keep her composure.

"Yes he is, Jaehaera," Maera said, a joyous smile breaking across her face. She refrained from mentioning the significance of Jaehaera's spoken words, not wanting to put too much pressure on the child.

Deciding to redirect their focus, Maera suggested, "Come. Shall we head back to the Keep and tell Maelor about our encounter with the difficult dragon?" The little girl nodded, prompting Maera to set her down and gently take her hand, cherishing the newfound connection between them as they began their journey back.

“It was lovely to hear her voice again, after so long. And that she felt safe enough with me to speak,” Maera expressed to Aemond, who sat opposite her in their chambers as they shared lunch together. The table hosted an array of dishes included savory pies, roasted meats, and various side dishes. However, Maera’s plate held only a simple barley soup, a testament to her persistent lack of appetite.

The time she had spent with their niece was shared with her husband, a bright smile across her face. Maera’s green eyes lit up as she recounted the details of the encounter with Ēbrion, the joyous revelation seeming to temporarily lift the weight that had hung over them since Jaehaerys’ death.

Aemond, finishing chewing his food before he spoke, raised an eyebrow. “I am surprised you took her to the beach, given how things have been of late.”

Maera took in the sight of him as she slowly placed a spoonful of soup into her mouth. His silver hair cascaded over his broad shoulders, framing his strong features with an air of rugged elegance. His remaining violet eye remained intensely focussed on her with a quiet attentiveness, his sharp jawline and chiseled features conveyed a sense of strength and determination.

Maera, her smile turning melancholic, replied with a sad glint in her eyes, “It is where I feel close to my family. I thought Jaehaera might find comfort there too.”

Aemond considered this for a moment before commenting, “Seems like she was quite taken with Ēbrion, from your story.”

Maera nodded, “Yes, I thought it might be a positive experience for her. Jaehaerys always said he would claim Ēbrion when he was alive. I suppose seeing the beast gave her a chance to be close with her twin once more.”

The One-Eyed Prince simply hummed in response, placing a forkful of food gracefully into his mouth. Despite the stoic exterior, there was a subtle warmth in his gaze as he engaged with Maera, creating a comforting atmosphere in the midst of their shared meal.

Swallowing a mouthful of food, Aemond suggested, "Perhaps Jaehaera could one day claim the dragon for herself."

Humming in response, Maera contemplated Aemond's idea while taking a sip of ginger tea. After a moment of reflection, she spoke with determination, "I want to strike while the iron is hot, make sure Jaehaera does not retreat back into her shell." In a sudden burst of inspiration, Maera's eyes lit up. "I could show her my sketchbook of Ēbrion," she said out loud, a plan forming in her mind.

Eager to put it into action, Maera rose from the table with swift determination. However, as she stood, a sudden dizziness overcame her. Desperately grasping at the table edge to steady herself, she accidentally knocked a glass onto the floor, the sound of shattering glass echoing in the chambers. Aemond quickly rose from his seat and rushed to her side, concern etched on his face.

Despite his protective gesture, Maera, in her stubbornness, gently batted him away, insistence in her voice. “I’m fine.”

A frustrated groan escaped Aemond’s lips. “You have been like this since Jaehaerys’ death,” he remarked, his worry evident.

Maera, ever defiant, argued, “It is just shock.”

Aemond countered, “Not like any shock I have seen before.”

With a playful grin, Maera teased, “What do you know about shock, husband?” Her attempt at humor, however, was met with a stern silence from Aemond. Unfazed, Maera reached for the water across the table, sipping it to ease the tension in the air.

As Maera set down the glass, Aemond's concern deepened. "You need to see the Maester," he insisted.

Maera shook her head defiantly, stating, "I will not."

Aemond, standing in front of her, took charge, grasping her chin roughly and tipping her head back to look at him. "This is not a request," he stated sternly, his authority cutting through the air.

Maera couldn't help but feel a flutter of excitement at his commanding presence. Tilted her head, she asked flirtatiously, "Is this my Prince's command?"

Aemond, not wanting to show any vulnerability, but also not immune to her charm, gave her a subtle smile and a nod. Maera, still playful, stated with a smirk, "Fine. But it will be a waste of time."

Maera decided to visit Maester Orwyle in his chambers, considering his hands were likely full with tending to the Queen's needs. She reasoned that summoning him for what she believed were mere symptoms of shock would be an unnecessary diversion of his time.

Entering the Maester's chambers, Maera found herself surrounded by an array of medical bottles and scrolls, neatly organized on shelves. The room was equipped with a sturdy table, presumably for examinations and treatments, while a small bed hinted at the occasional need for medical examinations and rest. The air carried the distinct scent of herbs and potions, creating an ambiance that spoke of the Maester's dedication to his craft.

Maester Orwyle, with his meticulous concern, had Maera seated in his chambers, questioning her about various aspects of her health. The inquiry covered her diet, appetite, and the amount of sleep she managed to get. His probing also extended to matters of intimacy with her husband, which elicited a smile from Maera as she assured him there were no issues on that front.

However, when the Maester broached the topic of Moon's Blood, Maera couldn't help but be momentarily perplexed. With the whirlwind of events since her marriage, she had inadvertently neglected to pay attention to her monthly cycle. Spottings here and there following the wedding were the extent of her awareness on the matter.

“Forgive me, Maester Orwyle. So much has happened… I cannot remember much about dates or how long I bled for,” Maera admitted with a tinge of sadness to her voice.

The Maester gave her a sympathetic smile. “That is understandable, Princess. I would still like to examine you, if I have your permission.”

“Is that necessary?” She asked defensively.

“Illness and symptoms can manifest in any part of the body,” Orwyle replied.

Reluctantly, Maera agreed to lie back on the bed, attempting to divert her thoughts away from the impending invasive examination. The Maester, with a professional demeanor, conducted the necessary examination, and seemed to hum with surprise and confirmation, before withdrawing his hand from her. Once the procedure was concluded, Maera sat up, smoothing down her black skirts with impatience and a hint of apprehension.

“Well? What is it, Maester? Is it serious? I thought it was just shock?” Maera enquired with a mix of eagerness and fear, hoping for some clarity on her current state of health.

The Maester wiped his hand on a nearby cloth before meeting her gaze directly. “It is quite simple, Princess Maera. You are with child.”

Notes: Ahhh I couldn’t keep this to myself any longer. I’ve been dropping subtle hints since they got married but it’s time to make it official! Fun fact; all the symptoms mentioned where all the symptoms I had in my first pregnancy 🖤

Tags: @blue-serendipity @0eessirk8 @shesjustanothergeek @marvelescvpe @manipulatixe @watercolorskyy @abecerra611 (welcome to the club)

Thank you so much for reading! Comments, feedback, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated 🖤

[bunnakit]

what shows are you currently watching? (shows that are airing weekly rn, no older shows)

for each one, list two things that you love about them and one thing you would like to see in future episodes!

ohohoo what a treat (finally getting to some of your amazing prompts anon, i assume its the same person but i apologize if im wrong)

Bake Me Please - I absolutely love the aesthetics of this show. They show off some of the most beautiful cakes and pastries and it's just gorgeous. I also love the way each person in the show is broken in one way or another; generational trauma, childhood trauma, dreams that feel out of reach, etc.

After my rant today I think we all know the one thing I want, NEED, to see is Shin apologize to Peach. I cannot stand the idea of Peach bearing all the emotional work for this relationship.

Cherry Magic 30 - So I'm coming at this from a place of knowing nothing about the originals. I'm really enjoying Karan just in general, his thoughtfulness, his care, all of it. He reminds me of a quote from episode 3 of The Last of Us: "Paying attention to things is how we show love." I'm also really enjoying the importance the show is putting on consent as well as Achi's care to make sure he isn't taking advantage.

I'm really going into this right now with no opinions, no theories, I'm just along for the ride. I hope we see some more cat thoughts, I guess.

Cooking Crush - I really wasn't sure if I was going to stick this one out. It's a little too goofy for my tastes but OffGun's chemistry is doing a lot of heavy lifting for me, so that's one of the things I'm enjoying. I'm also enjoying the playfulness of Ten and Prem and this cute courtship they have going on.

I hope Fire's mom explodes.

Last Twilight - You guys have seen my meta posts. I could wax poetic about this show all day long. Thus far I ADORE how they're treating Day's disability and showing how important him maintaining his agency is. I'm also really enjoying Mhok's perspective as a caretaker and the way he adapts and learns every day. I've been both - I'm currently disabled and I was a caretaker for five years. This show is so near and dear to my heart already.

I really hope we see what the hell is going on between Night and Day. Like, we have to, right?

Pit Babe - I'm an omegaverse bitch. I'm sorry, it's my guilty pleasure. One of the first things I do when I get the brainrot for something is go see if there are any good omegaverse fics (I'm very picky, we don't like misogyny or thinly veiled transphobia in this house, no thanks.) I'm enjoying seeing the worldbuilding of this show so far as well as each of the characters and their personalities. Everyone, even North and Sonic, feel like fully fleshed out people and I'm very much enjoying that.

I hope Way explodes - No, I hope we see them build more on the omegaverse aspect of things. I wanna see a man get pregnant. I also want to see a woman, just one woman, just a single one. Where are the women?

Playboyy - BOY HOWDY. Listen, I'm mostly watching this to avoid FOMO. I'm asexual, the sex is doing nothing for me really. The wet noises make me scream and throw my headphones off. I AM enjoying the mystery aspect of the plot a lot, I'm very curious where that is going. I'm also very much enjoying the exploration of different sexualities, like the hints that Soong and Zouey might be demisexual.

Obviously I want to know what the fuck happened to Nant, but I also just want to see more Prom. Also wanna see Aob become soft for Puen.

The Sign - My absolute beloved. I'm obsessed, I'm going to be obsessed forever I fear. The mythology is just fucking superb, the yearning is incredible, the action is great, the friendships phenomenal. I could go on and on about everything I love about this show. It's everything to me and I know I'm going to be a WRECK when it inevitably ends.

I can't wait for Phaya and Tharn to fuck, sure, but I can't wait for them to be in love. I can't wait to see them hold each other gently, look for reassurances in each other, and I hope they each regain at least some memories of their past selves and maybe how much they loved each other.

[joannerowling]

is it true that Rowling sent flowers to marilyn Manson? 💀

Unknown/unclear. Manson tweeted once "thank you for the lovely gift JKR" with a picture of roses that doesn't seem to have been taken from the internet, however JKR never acknowledged it, which is out of character.

Since your angle is obvious here, let me disappoint you: i'm perfectly knowledgeable about the topic of JKR's supposed "friendships" with Johnny Depp and his clique, and comfortable discussing it. In fact, here's a reddit thread written by someone who is anti-JKR, which i'm linking so that anyone not knowledgeable can learn the basics (it's factual enough, though not always honest in providing all context), and so nobody can accuse me of ignoring the subject out of misplaced idolatry.

TRAs seeking to undermine JKR's character through any mean available have attempted the "oooo, JKR the so-called women-defender is actually friend with abusive men!!" route a few times. It's failed to gain much popularity, even amongst themselves, because there's just not much meat to it. (Which, considering that most attacks against JKR rely on making stuff up about Harry Potter that she never wrote, is saying a lot i feel.)

JKR's connexions with Depp amount to buying stuff from him. No picture of them hanging out, no known exchanges besides saying they admired each other's work. Vague hearsay from untrustworthy sources - one of the things the above reddit thread fails to contextualise is who Dan Wootton, the guy who accused JKR of being too close to Depp and refusing to fire him from FB, exactly is (hint: not a trustworthy guy). I'm pretty sure Wootton is a blueprint for Culpepper in the Strike novels, if you get the reference.

The only thing confirmed is that JKR initially believed Depp's word against Heard's. I feel like she is a pretty good judge of character in general, but eh, no one is immune to a famous actor's charms. The fact she hasn't come to defend Depp during his latest trial suggests she may have changed her mind – she hasn't exactly shied away from defending unpopular people when she felt strongly enough about their innocence. But, she didn't feel strongly enough about defending Heard either. Maybe at this point she feared she would do more harm than good; maybe she still supports Depp privately; maybe she's too proud to admit to have been wrong. Maybe she just doesn't like Heard and didn't want to support her! Who knows.

What i know for sure is that JKR pours like half of her money into charity work to help women and kids. She makes her positions on abusive men clear, both in public and in her fiction, so you can't even accuse her of influencing anyone into supporting them. Even if i didn't like JKR, i really fail to see what could possibly be the problem here. I feel like people just NEED women to be secretly wicked witches who manipulate everyone into believing they're good-hearted when in fact at night they're evilly cackling at the suffering of babes. It's misogyny my dude, that's it.

Edit: on second thoughts this was an insane reply but i STAND BY IT

[themotherofhorses]

Hi, about what the other anon said.

I think they're were referring to the swearing. Alicent was out of character because she would never say "fuck" this much, or lost her composure over a handmaid feelings. For Diane in the show for exemple, she said to Aegon she was ashamed of him. She made him feel pitiful by being extremely cold/passive-aggressive. Moreover, she understands the misogyny of her time. If Aemond is "tired" of his handsmaid/done playing with her, it's his right because it was very common for men to act like that. It sucks, but there is nothing she could have done.

For Aemond there are a couple of things I didn't really understand in your last piece.

1st : why would he be bothered by the fact she's a bastard, knowing he has himself fathered bastards ? Why would he be okay with having bastard sons but not okay being with a bastard ?

2nd : How did he guesses she was a Strong relative ? As I understood the concept of bastardy, even smallfolk could make "bastards". As long are your parents weren't wed, were they from nobility or not, you're a bastard. So even so Handsmaid is the daughter of a strong bastard, unless Aemond knew who Alys Rivers was, there's no way he could have guessed her "strong" blood.

Nevertheless, thank you for your work (I hope my critic won't bother you too much. I'm sorry if it does)

Hi love, I'd be very happy to clear things up a bit, and share my perspective on everything.

I can understand that Alicent's outburst may seem a bit OOC and confusing, and I've gotten a lot of hate for how I wrote her in the fic from last night.

In this series, Alicent has a soft spot for the handmaid (who I've taken to calling Anya, so I will refer to her as that in this specific response). I've hinted at it many times; for example, when she comforts her after learning she is pregnant with the twins. Some anons have greatly complained about it, but I won't change it. Anyways, Anya is a new and young mother, who's given her prince the heirs he has yearned for so badly...but now she is suddenly left alone in the nursery, to tend to the babes without their father. Perhaps that sounds a bit familiar? In Alicent's eyes, she's not only watching her beloved (favorite) son following down the same path as his father and brother, but Anya is also turning into an unappreciated and saddened mother.

I agree that, yeah, the cussing and the loss of composure were probably very unAlicent-like, but everything was done in an eruption of anger and frustration. People are human, and rage can easily change a person into someone else, even if it is only for five minutes. This is something she's likely kept bottled in for DECADES, after seeing herself and Helaena and now Anya suffer at the hands of their men, it just came out.

(And that is why Aemond was so dumbstruck and silent during it. This was so unlike his own mother that even he was left a bit gagged.)

As for Aemond himself:

The main reason for his feelings towards her bastard origins is rooted back in the trauma surrounding his eye. Aemond associates bastards with his nephews, plain and simple. The word is basically tainted and leaves a sour taste in his mouth. Plus, sometimes he is not always thinking straight (allowing those insecurities and resentment to influence his actions) and can be very hypocritical and confusing.

I imagine he is fine with fathering his children because, in his mind, since they resemble him, they're not *actually* bastards. They can pass as legitimate Targaryen babies born within a true marriage. Again, hypocritical.

And how did he figure out Anya was a Strong relative? Aemond is smart and cunning, we do have to give him that. If not in the book (he's dumb as rocks in it), then in here. He knows her mother's name now, and he's going to do a bit of digging.

He'll start putting two and two together as well: her features, the lack of a father's name in hers, Lord Larys Strong's strange soft spot, comments like "the daughter of a milk cow", etc.

At least, that is what I think.

My fic series is not perfect, and sometimes I'll make mistakes or accidentally overlook portions of the plot where it might remain open and confusing. I always really appreciate when people provide me with constructive criticism, as it helps me better my writing. Thank you!

[curiouscrystals]

Accidentally saw part of the drama with someone hating on Crystal and let me say as a Crystal stan I've been seeing shit like this about her for years and it reeks of misogyny for me, this is also why I avoid her tag

Like. I love Lazlo I swear I do, he and Crystal are both my favourite characters, together and apart. In my interpretation they're cool supportive both bi/demisexual friends and colleagues that gradually grow into more. But isn't it a coincidence how a girl with stronger, maybe more "masculine" so to say features and also with some lore that may hint she's imperfect (regardless of how you interpret the Strangerville book thing, although I've seen these shitty takes way before it even came out), is made out to be a Bitch(tm) who doesn't deserve Lazlo, yet I've most often observed that he's shipped with some girls who are "cute and angelic" instead (nothing wrong with these ships but you know what I mean, and a lot of the time these female characters are sort of juxtaposed to Crystal as if Lazlo deserves better than a Bitch like her). It reminds me of the mean ex-girlfriend trope in wattpad fanfics. Why is this still a thing in 2024?

Like I myself gave Crystal some personality but she's mostly just a blank townie. Where do yall get this from and why is she being villainised so much, and not even in a cool villain but in the 2000s misogynistic shitty ex girlfriend way. She's not a bad person for not liking him back in the game too, come on. She can either grow to like him later, or not like him this way and have a different sexuality or preferences which is fine too. I suspect some of those people love Lazlo as more than just a character... 😬 (which I get trust me. Fictional crushes are fun. Lazlo is like chef's kiss. But check your misogyny babes and touch some grass pls why are you competing with a fictional woman for a fictional man)

[reginarubie]

Great chapter that highlights the view how westeros sees a woman on the throne, with a sparkle of humanity.

I love it.I love Alfred, despite being misogynist and the fact he is protecting the little girl warms my heart.

Feel bad for Nyra because she's still a daughter, a mother, a human.

Daemon disgusts me further with each chapter and I'm so scared for Sansa but at the same time I know she won't be alone and she can handle Daemon because sadly she had known those type of men.

Does Daemon believe Sansa want him? He believes he's cat and she's the mouse and the sheep butttt Sansa has the upper hand.

If Rhaenys has acknowledged, Daemon and Nyra will do it soon.

It would be interesting seeing the dyanmic between S and D shifting:Her having the upper hand and Daemon becoming more frustated and desperate to get in her head but to no avail.

Also regard the dream:at this point I'm choosing the names for the future babe of Sansa and Aemond😍

I can also say that you're one of the few brave writers that wrote Daemon in his worst? I stumble across two writers that don't hesistate to write him in his worst:

I would love to recommend you these stories😊

Wildfire and Blood

He has Alicent/Daemon pairing and you may know it won't end well😅

Also here we have the pair of Alicent and Daemon and Nyra!

Personally I would give it a shot but it's your choice!

Have a nice day dear!!!

Ciao @tremendouswolfsaladranch!

Thank you for the recs, I will check them out!, they seem pretty interesting so far.

I think Alfred is a mix between Selmy and Davos, so there is misogyny typical of the environment he lives in, loyalty to his own set of rules — the same way Selmy is — and also some kind of blindness, but he's also a bit like Davos and thus protective of little girls.

That was the goal I had in mind, when I am portraying the characters of asoiaf/f&b I try to see all their facets. Whilst Nyra is not a good leader/ruler — despite some, mostly show, moments — and lacks the attitude to become a good monarch, but she's still a daughter who loved her father and mother, a sister who lost her brothers and a mother who lost her child.

I think Daemon is the kind of narcissistic man who thinks everybody wants him, because he's valyrian — thus better — because he considers himself clever and charming and mostly because everyone should simply venerate the Targaryens — though he does show a modicum of comprehension that the easiness with which the Targaryen rules depend on how the small folk sees them as well.

Rhaenys acknowledged that Ned is not a sheep, she's not the kind of woman who follows the current without a single thought, but the kind of woman who is capable of stepping up, which is exactly who Sansa is (both in show canon and book canon), but Rhaenys has something neither Daemon nor Rhaenyra have, she's more adept to read a room than they are. Daemon is very observant but he is blinded by his own bias, Rhaenys instead is the kind of woman who thinks outside the box (same way as Daenerys is) so she sees what Ned/Sansa does for what is — a wolf hiding in sheep's cloth ready to wield the considerable power she has managed to gain for her own end — I doubt especially Daemon will simply understand this. He'd have to feel the burn of it before anything else.

Are you? [choosing the names of their kids?] drop your head canons about them! Wanna see if you all can guess some of the hints I've left around the story since chapter 1.

Ehm... I'm not really reading fics atm because I'm very busy...though I've seen that people are idolizing Daemon quite a bit, still it doesn't surprise me that Black Stans would try and intimidate anyone who doesn't write one half of their fave the way they see him (though if I was a Rhaenyra' stan I would've banned him the moment she came out with that ‘I'm not a child anymore’ the biggest red flag about her having been groomed —especially thinking at book canon and how much younger than him she is — and especially more after they had shown him put his hands on her. Yes, she hurt him more than he hurt her, because his pride and love for his brother are hurt without doubt, but he still put his hands on her and that's as abusive as her ‘torturing’ someone she's supposed to love to gain the upper hand, though her I excuse since he is the one who threw hands first and she was just reacting). I'm just thankfully I've flown under they radar so far tbh.

I've already been on the receiving end of death wishes, bullying and attempts of intimidation —as well as apparent ridiculing on twitter — and whilst I showed them first-hand that they could not get me to back down, I'm still a lover not a fighter, and I prefer to keep my word-fighting abilities where they belong — at court as I am a lawyer in training and studying to become a judge — so I'd rather not have a repeat of last time (still, I have my fair share of ‘go sciacquati la bocca’ ready, just in case).

I think you've sent me this ask twice by mistake, and I think I should've replied to all, but feel free to correct me if I'm wrong.

As I was saying today whilst replaying to this ask about the future POV chapters and which characters I like the most to write, which I find difficult and which I've been anxiously waiting to write and post, I don't think I will make Daemon a POV character, at least not in the first installment of the series (though I'm not saying anything about the side stories); for the main story I wanna wait until the female POV's around him are well settled and nuanced to then drop his POV like a bomb and disrupt it all (a bit like Jaime POV gave us a better understanding of Cersei — and her descent into her own brand of madness — and Tyrion both).

Thank you, as always for having dropped by and shown your appreciation for the story, it was always makes my day! As always sending all my love ~G.

[asoiafdrabbles]

Is it so far from madness to wisdom? Chapter 5

Summary: Daemon wants to spend more time with his son and if being a proper father means gaining some power, well…

AO3 Link

Chapters on Tumblr

Notes: This fic is 3rd person limited pov, so technically no one is totally reliable because they lack information and make decisions based on emotions and stuff, but Daemon is particularly unreliable, and not just because no one knows Maegon is now Jon lol I dropped a lot of really heavy hints about it, but wanted to make sure everyone was aware in advance so I didn't get any weird comments thinking Daemon was a trustworthy narrator.

(warning for extra misogyny in this chapter, too)

Also, I decided that this chapter would be entirely Daemon’s pov. This is in two parts with a time jump in between--which will be filled in next chapter from Jon's POV.

"Westerosi Common" -High Valyrian- *Old Tongue*

XxXxX

"Why Maegon?"

Daemon turned from adjusting Caraxes' saddle after their ride, seeing his son standing just far enough back to not upset the dragon. As though they were strangers, as though his very first ride on dragonback had not been strapped to Daemon’s chest on Caraxes, as his mother had done with him. He wondered when his son had gotten so overly cautious now that he was on the ground, who had taught him to be so.

If it was the Hightower cunts sinking their claws into Daemon's flesh and blood or the lingering taint from his bronze bitch.

-Come again?- he replied in High Valyrian, thinking it was past the time he should have started practicing with him.

Maegon frowned, but spoke the same in return, -I have wondered, why would you name a child Maegon?-

His accent would need work, it was too obvious he had not used the language much in his youth (Daemon still remembered how at one of his brief visits during the early days of the war he had to threaten Runestone’s Maester to ensure that High Valyrian was taught to Maegon along with Common), but Viserys had done well enough.

The question had Daemon smirking as he thought back to Maegon's birth. The bronze bitch had been in agony for hours and it had been a pleasure to listen to her screams, knowing he was the ultimate cause for them, when she had brought him so much suffering already.

-She said she hoped there was nothing of me in you, then you came out and it was clear from the very moment the blood was washed from you that you were Valyrian. I said that since some at court compare me to Maegor, I would call you Maegon, so no one could ever forget whose son you were.- (1) His voice softened as he recalled that perfect moment, one of his few fond memories in the Vale.

Maegon’s frown only deepened, making him look far older than he was, though fitting with the mummery of maturity he’d been clinging to even around his father. -Not just so anyone would remember, you chose the name so my mother would be forced to acknowledge it, constantly.-

-Whatever child you have may be a Royce, but you are a Prince of House Targaryen(2). When you were born, your cousin had just been named heir, but Viserys still coveted a male heir…I thought any male heir who was not myself.” He’d been so sure, in that first moon, that Maegon had been the answer to his worries. “And yet, he scoffed at your existence, when I wrote to him he replied to greet you as a future lord.- Daemon gripped Maegon’s slender arms, staring down at him as he spoke with fervor. -But that is not all you are, no matter what the realm thinks.-

If he were not heir, his son should have been. As soon as he was born, Viserys should have replaced Rhaenyra with him, even if it meant that it was Viserys raising Maegon instead of Daemon. But then he’d wed his Hightower whore and Daemon had realized even a babe, innocent of nothing but having Daemon’s blood, would never be allowed on the throne as long as the Hightowers retained any power.

-Just as you are more than a lady’s widower?- Maegon lashed out, and while his voice was calm and cold, the action itself reminded Daemon again that this was his son.

For so long, that hadn’t seemed the case. He could see so little of himself in the boy when they interacted, outside of his looks. How he had so easily accepted a lesser place than he deserved. What humiliations he suffered with a calm detachment when he should have been raging against them. Maegon had baffled him to the point he had often been uncomfortable in his presence, his obvious Valyrian ancestry the only reason Daemon didn’t doubt he was his sire.

He could admit that he had not looked deeply enough, had not cultivated the fire within his son. The Stepstones should have been a way to carve out territory for himself, a dynasty of his own for the two of them. Perhaps the time he had spent there and away from his only child would have been justified, then.

But he had thought of the child Mysaria had lost whenever he saw the babe in Rhea’s arms, wrapped always in her House colors as though to ward off any more signs of his Targaryen heritage. And he saw how even fate mocked him, knowing that if only a few years earlier he had been his brother’s male heir with a male heir of his own, nothing he could have said or done would have led to his removal.

He would have been in King’s Landing to prevent Viserys from making his worst choices, the ones that even he could see from the Stepstones were beginning to cause suffering in the realm. He could have killed that Hightower whore before she even got close to his brother.

Things would change, now.

He was free of his bronze bitch and his son had claimed the most dangerous of wild dragons as though it were a docile kitten. Though the Stepstones wouldn’t be the kingdom Corlys had once tempted him with, he had learned much from his time there. So much had been put into perspective these last few years.

Daemon stroked a lock of silver hair out of his son’s eyes, furious at the way he flinched as though expecting pain, but putting those thoughts away for another time. -You are too young, yet, to be ruling lord. You should not lose your childhood when you still have a parent to support you. I am here to do as a father must and become your regent.-

“No.” Maegon’s tone was surprisingly strong, though he couldn’t break out of Daemon’s hold on his arm when he tried to move away.

-Maegon– -

“No, Prince Daemon, you are unwelcome here and have spent as little time in these halls, in these lands, as you could. Perhaps you can rule, but the people would grow bitter, and I would not have them hate me for being your son instead of love me for being my mother’s.”

Rhea’s words and sentiments, the Hightowers’, possibly, twisting his only child against him. It would take time to fix things, but they’d have that time, now. No one could keep him from Maegon anymore.

-I am your father, I am not asking you, I am telling you.-

“My lady mother willed that our cousin Gerold be my regent until I come of age, you have no say in that. I am lord here, now, for all that means so little to you, and I will not go against my mother’s appointment.” Maegon gave a cruel smile and Daemon did not think he had ever looked more like him than in that moment.

Caraxes shifted and hissed in agitation, picking up his mixed mood: the stilted adoration he wished to give this boy who had proven, against all odds, that he belonged to Daemon and the fury at how much others had already influenced him. The torn and tattered parts of him left from the trials of war that he knew could be healed if only his son would listen to him, would be obedient to his father as he should be and allow them to finally be the family they should have been without the bronze bitch’s interference.

Maegon finally did pull away, then, slipping out of Daemon’s loosened grasp and backing up with a wary glance at Caraxes. Daemon was unsure if he thought so little of him or if he knew so little of bonds, yet, that he was afraid of his own father’s dragon in his father’s presence.

He took a breath, reminding himself that for all Maegon often acted like an adult, he was a confused child and needed patience. A young Rhaenyra at times had been just as frustrating to deal with, but Daemon had managed.

“I will stay for now, regardless, for I will not leave you alone without family.”

Maegon scoffed, but didn’t protest, and Daemon took that as a sign that deep down he knew the truth.

***

Nine days later, Daemon stormed from Runestone and mounted Caraxes with barely a look back. He’d thought he was making progress with his son, but the Andals(3) that surrounded them had continued to poison Maegon against him and push back against his attempts at proper, Valyrian parenting.

Even Laenor, who should have been his ally in this.

And Maegon was too young to see what was happening, too trusting in those around him. He was only free from their control when they were with their dragons, smiling and laughing as he should be around his father. Soaking up whatever knowledge Daemon imparted, clearly longing to learn more of their culture, his true culture.

Those brief glimpses of the relationship they should have, of the child Maegon should be, were breaking Daemon’s heart.

There would be no winning at the moment, when Maegon was in such treacherous territory, but Daemon knew how to bide his time. Patience had never come naturally to him, but it was a skill he’d learned.

Without welcome in King’s Landing, and unsure if Rhaenyra was in on whatever Laenor was plotting, he flew to Driftmark, knowing that Corlys would welcome him despite his son’s behavior. He needed a distraction before he began to plan in earnest.

XxXxX

Notes:

(1) Maegon is a real Targaryen name (he would have been Aegon I’s great-great uncle iirc), that it looks like Maegor + Daemon is more because the Targs only have like 6 names they reuse (with slight variations on them). (2) Technically Maegon maybe shouldn't be a prince, from the precedents we have (for example, Baela and Rhaena are almost only referred to as ladies), but canon seems to be all over the place on that point. I imagine even if he shouldn't be a prince that it would have been a concession to get Daemon to marry Rhea in the first place: that any children he had with her would be Targaryen royalty, still (also since there were so few male Targaryens at the time, a smart move in case one of Daemon's children did need to become heir). It is expected that Maegon's children will be Royces barring something else coming up. (3) I’m imagining “Andal” is used to mean “non-Valyrians of Westeros (derogatory),” since most Westerosi have Andal blood. Even during ASOIAF, House Royce is still attached to its First Men history, so I think they think of themselves as First Men here, despite any marrying with Andals they’ve done since the invasion. Daemon does not see Maegon as an Andal (any longer) because his Targaryen blood is “obviously” stronger/erases the “taint” of anything else lol

Heading off complaints: the last part is supposed to contradict the first part--Daemon is thinking all about how he’s going to raise his son now, how he’s basically more mature and ready to be a father, and then he gives up in like only two weeks while making excuses to himself lol

And, yes, that is foreshadowing what he's about to go do.

[diorissei]

recently read some seijoh4 frat au fics and omfg these men are so toxic so fucking devious and yet, so hot. my god…the story and characters were just so well-written like ugh even the dialogue was attractive so now I shall provide u with some of my own seijoh4 frat hcs (and this is coming from someone who’s in a professional frat)

i’m not sure if i should tag the writers i was inspired by because I don’t want to come off as weird and i don’t want to make them uncomfortable so pls lmk if you would like to be tagged and credited ty!

note: this is my first drabble/piece of writing here. please leave some feedback if you would like 🥺 also this is loosely based off my own experience in a fraternity lol

ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ…………………………………………………………….

pairings: matsukawa x f!reader with hints of iwaizumi and hanamaki

content warnings: 18+ content, all characters are aged up 18+, college/frat au, male x f!reader, alcohol, hazing, emotional manipulation, humiliation, use of pet names (sweet thing, babe, etc), some misogyny, seijoh4 being dicks, mild (?) choking, recording without consent, suggestive themes. if you don’t like it, please don’t read.

tbh I see seijoh4 as members of a super selective business frat (ΣΕΨ sigma epsilon psi) bc I’m p sure it’s canon that seijoh is a private school and the boys come from money

the executive board: president: oikawa | vp: iwaizumi | secretary: mattsun | treasurer: makki

most professional frats are co-ed, but seijoh’s been a majority male frat for a while now so when you, a freshman, attempt to rush because you want to break out of your shy shell and become a strong-willed business woman, you immediately become a subject of interest to the exec board

their frat had won you over with their presentation on the importance of inclusion and voice in the business environment and an added plus was the acceptance rate of their members into big corporations and law firms

each exec board member gave a speech detailing their position and goals for the year and you remembered how deep and smooth their voices sounded. they were excellent speakers and you hoped they would help you become successful and dominant just like them

as their eyes swept over the crowd of wide-eyed, innocent potential new members (boys and girls included), you noticed that their eyes lingered a little bit too long on you

to the exec board, female pledges were always the best. they were always so eager to please and do well, but little did they know that sigma epsilon psi was just as cruel as the outside business world. so why not start early?

ΣΕΨ always had a pretty big turnout at their interest meeting bc of the power they held not only in terms of popularity but also their academics. (the insane attractiveness of the board was only an added plus)

most members have stellar gpas, were TAs (teacher assistants), and held internships at the most competitive companies. you heard a rumor that a recommendation from a brother could get you just about anywhere.

but you also heard that the rush process was insane

the exec board preached professionalism in everything they do their members and pledges, but during rush month, the facade comes off and they became different men entirely

if you even received a bid from them, you heard that the rush and social events were humiliating and degrading as everything you did for them would be for the sake of the frat, for the sake of your loyalty to the brotherhood

Cheers erupted all around you as the sticky ping pong ball landed in the cup right in front of you. “Fuckkk,” you groaned. This was the fifth time that the ball landed in your cup. You looked up at your partner, the secretary of Sigma Epsilon Psi, Matsukawa Issei, only to find him staring back at you with dark eyes. At first, when he had asked if you wanted to be partners with him for beer pong you inwardly cheered, but now you realized that the universe had other plans for you.

Matsukawa laughed at your misfortune and removed the ball from your cup. He picked up the red solo cup and used it as an opportunity to sling his arm over your shoulder. The tall man towered over you as he held the cup to your lips. If it weren’t for the current situation then you might have actually enjoyed the sight. It’s no secret that the executive board of Sigma Epsilon Psi was easy on the eyes. “Come on y/n. Drink up,” he goaded as he pushed the cup against your plush lips.

Noticing your hesitance Matsukawa spoke again. “You do want to get in right? You want to become a strong business woman right? Isn’t that what you told me during interviews?” he asked, voice dripping in mirth and sarcasm. He was right; you had to get in no matter what. This process, this frat, these people, all of it was just a means to a hopefully money-filled end. “Come on y/n, Makki’s team is winning and I’m not trying to iron his damn suits for him for the next month,” complained Matsukawa.

His eyes watched as Makki’s partner picked up his cup and began chugging. He looked at you expectantly but this time his eyes had a darker glint in it. Fuck it, you thought as you picked up your cup and downed the jungle juice mixture in one swallow, ignoring the burn as the liquid traveled down your throat and into your stomach.

“Atta girl,” said Matsukawa as he released his tight grip on your shoulder. His eyes looked you up and down, lingering on your swollen lips and flushed chest. The business formal blouse you had to wear to every meeting and party as a pledge was now stuck to your body, outlining the curves of your body and the ridges of your bra. Matsukawa’s hand gripped your waist as he leaned down to whisper in your ear. His warm breath sent shivers down your spine. “Flip the fucking cup and make me proud babe.”

You set the cup down and tried to flip it onto its open end. People cheered as you and Makki’s partner raced against each other, trying to flip the cup but failing. Fuck fuck fuck. Your head was pounding and you were sure your face was flushed a bright red as the party raged around you. Your back was soaked with sweat and your whole body felt hot, not to mention the heat coming from Matsukawa’s large hand as it rested on the curve of your ass. If you couldn’t flip this you would have to drink from the bitch cup, a cup that was filled with every single alcohol that could be found in the frat house. You couldn’t drink from that cup. You just couldn’t. That cup would fuck you up and put you at the mercy of the executive board.

You bent down, not noticing that your ass kept brushing against Matsukawa’s front. You tried everything. Gentle taps and quick flicks of your wrist, but that stupid red solo cup kept bouncing off the table’s surface. It kept falling down and your ears were filled with the sounds of plastic ricocheting off plastic. It didn’t help that the pounding bass of the speakers was making your headache worse. You were getting more and more nervous and just as you were going to try again, cheers erupted from Makki’s side. The male pledge’s cup stood upright on its wider end.

Fuck, your bid is getting revoked for sure now.

“Aw, y/n,” groaned Matsukawa, “Were you even trying? Stupid girl, now you have to drink from the bitch cup.” He didn’t look the slightest bit disappointed. The smirk he had on since the beginning of the game never left his face.

“And as your partner and your secretary, I get the honors of delivering the bitch cup to you.” Not wanting to disrespect a brother, no less a member of the executive board, you nodded and followed him to the kitchen. Shame flooded through your body and if it wasn’t for the red flush on your cheeks you swear you would have been even redder.

“Iwa, pass me the bitch cup. This sweet thing lost so now she has to drink from it,” laughed Matsukawa as he motioned to the muscular man leaning on the fridge. The vice president, Iwaizumi Hajime, passed the dark haired man the godforsaken cup and looked you up and down. “Damn, she looks fucked up. I don’t know if she can even drink this,” chuckled Iwaizumi. “Nah, no worries, that’s why I’m here to help,” said Matsukawa. “Right, y/n?”

Again, voiceless, you nodded.

“Good girl.”

He quickly got behind you and tilted your head up. “Wait- what are you doing?” you asked, head jerking away from his hand. “I’m just helping you drink from the bitch cup. Don’t worry about it babe. Now stay still.”

His left hand came up to cup your face, the silver rings cooling your burning face while the other hand lifted the bitch cup to your mouth.

Fuck. You felt tears begin to well up on your lash line, but you wouldn’t let yourself cry. You got yourself into this mess and now you were going to get yourself out of it, no matter how attractive these men were. No matter how much you wanted to crumble at their feet and let them do whatever they wanted to do you.

“Now open wide pretty girl,” cooed Matsukawa as his left hand squeezed your lower jaw. The praise sent another burst of heat down your body and your core clenched. Obediently you opened your mouth and looked up at Matsukawa with wide eyes. You swore you heard Matsukawa whisper fuck under his breath. You felt humiliated and yet, this might be the hottest thing you’ve experienced in college.

You could only watch as a steady stream of alcohol was poured down your throat. Matsukawa’s hand was so large that it wrapped around your throat, holding you still so the alcohol could flow right down your throat and so he could feel your throat contracting with every swallow you took. His fingers applied a light pressure to your throat and you could feel the warmth of his body as his chest was pressed to your back. He felt so toned. You felt dizzy. Your vision started to blur but you forced yourself to focus on Matsukawa’s blown pupils and the large banner hanging in the kitchen that had the letters ΣΕΨ embroidered on it in teal. If not for the liquid in your mouth, you would have moaned. So much for preserving the last shreds of your dignity.

“Damn,” you heard Makki remark, “She looks like a natural, right Iwa?” The vice president gave a grunt in response, more focused on watching your throat bob up and down. He wondered what else your mouth was good at as he watched the streams of alcohol miss your mouth and instead, flow down your chin and onto the formal blouse you wore.

Out of the corner of your eye you could see Makki with his phone out and flash on.

“Fuck, you’re almost there,” groaned Matsukawa. “You look so good like this, y/n.”

The taste of soju and truly burned the back of your throat and you were sure that you were going to see imprints of Matsukawa’s fingers and rings on your neck the next day, but you continued swallowing that crude mixture.

All for the fraternity, right?

[fanficapologist]

Of Dragons and Maelstroms

Themes and Warnings: slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood, violence, explicit language, sexual violence, period-typical misogyny, sexual themes, smut, tension, marriage, jealousy, pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, attempted sexual assault, breastfeeding, major character death, divergent timelines

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood/Game of Thrones characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Chapter Forty-Four

A few more days passed, and Helaena's struggle to keep food down persisted. Every day brought bouts of severe vomiting, and she was growing weaker. In her chambers, Maester Orwyle examined the Queen, this time with Maera offering support by her side.

The Maester advised, "Your Grace, you must try to keep food down to support the growth of the babe." Maera couldn't help but interject on Helaena's behalf, her words laced with sarcasm. "I'm sure Her Grace here is simply vomiting for the fun of it, Maester."

As the Maester began packing away his tools, Maera, concerned for her friend, asked, "If the Queen cannot cannot stomach the food she is being served, what should be do Maester Orwyle?"

The man, though hesitant, replied, "I usually don't recommend it, but given the severe weight loss, Queen Helaena should try to eat anything she feels she can manage as often as possible."

Maera turned to address Helaena, a hopeful glint in her eyes, as she asked, "My dear sister, if you could, what is it you would want to eat more than anything in this world?"

The Queen replied with a slight smile, "Apple fingers." Maera's smile mirrored Helaena's, as apple fingers were the food her friend had craved in her previous pregnancies.

When carrying the twins, the Keep was flooded with apple fingers every day from Flea Bottom for Queen Helaena to snack on. Yet there was a specific recipe from a particular stall in the city that Helaena had fallen in love with. Unfortunately, neither Maera nor the Queen could recall the exact details. So, Maera decided to take matters into her own hands and investigate.

As she entered her own chambers, Maera found herself in the care of her loyal maid, Thena, as they prepared for a clandestine journey into the city. Instead of her customary noble dress, Maera donned a simple yet practical attire - a blue tunic and black trousers. The practicality of the ensemble hinted at the covert nature of their expedition, a departure from the opulence she was accustomed to. Thena, with nimble fingers, began to braid Maera's dark locks away from her face. The plaits, neat and efficient, added a touch of practicality to her appearance, ensuring that her hair wouldn't be an impediment during their venture. Maera then reached into one of her wooden chests and pulled out her dagger, securing it to her body with a thick black leather belt.

A hooded brown cloak, chosen for its unassuming nature, was draped around Maera's shoulders. It was a garment that hinted at anonymity, concealing her noble identity as she ventured into the heart of the city. As Thena's gentle hands worked with skill and care, Lady Maera's transformation was complete. Her attire, hair, and demeanor all spoke of a readiness to step into the world beyond the walls of the Keep.

Upon re-entering the Queen’s chambers, Maera found her friend sat in a chair by the hearth, her fragile condition a testament to the early stages of pregnancy. She wore a light blue, loose-fitting dress that gently draped over her form, providing both comfort and space for her changing body. Her complexion, usually radiant, appeared paler, and her presence exuded a sense of vulnerability. Maera’s eyes met the Queen’s violet ones, their usual vibrancy dimmed by her condition, and assured Helaena that she would return in due course.

The Queen tried to convince Maera otherwise, saying, "You do not have to go down to Flea Bottom to procure cakes for me."

Maera shook her head, determined. "Nonsense, your Grace. I am merely serving my Queen and the Realm by doing so."

Helaena, concerned, asked, "Are you not worried about going into the city?"

Maera assured her, "I'm not," and patted the dagger at her hip. "And I won't be alone. Ser Arryk will accompany me."

Helaena smiled, though there was a lingering edge of worry. Maera stood before her, her expression serious. "If I could do just one thing to make you happy, then I would do it a thousand times."

The bustling streets of the city were alive with activity as Lady Maera and Ser Arryk Cargyll made their way through the lively thoroughfares. The markets were a cacophony of sights and sounds, a bustling hive of activity that pulsed with life. The narrow, winding streets teemed with vendors peddling their wares, creating a tapestry of colorful stalls that stretched as far as the eye could see.

Amidst the commotion, shouts and haggling filled the air, as merchants vied for the attention of passersby. Stalls were piled high with goods of every variety, from fresh produce to exotic spices, textiles, and trinkets. The scent of street food wafted through the air, mingling with the earthy aroma of herbs and the rich notes of tea leaves.

Shoppers, their faces reflecting a diverse cross-section of the city's population, weaved their way through the labyrinthine market streets, examining wares with a discerning eye. Children darted between the stalls, their laughter a joyful chorus to the city's daily rhythm.

Maera ventured through the crowded streets, Se Arryk closely at her side whilst she visited numerous stalls, sampling a variety of cakes, yet none seemed to match the delicate flavors of the treat Helaena adored. Some were overly spiced, others too sour, and a few too dense for their liking.

At the far end of the market street, the pair stumbled upon a bustling stall managed by three women who appeared to be related. They displayed an array of delectable desserts: lemon cakes, berry tarts, and apricot pies. And finally, at the end of the display, rested a tray of enticing apple fingers.Maera handed the middle-aged woman of the stall three copper coins and couldn't resist sampling the delicacy. The taste was divine, the perfect combination of air-light cake, sweet yet slightly tart apples, a sprinkle of cinnamon, and a sugary icing.

With a satisfied smile, Maera complimented the woman behind the stall, "These are absolutely delicious." The blonde-haired seller gratefully replied, "Thank you."

Maera inquired, "Have you delivered these to the Keep before?" The eldest woman on the stall confirmed, "Deliveries were made regularly to the Keep about five years ago."

Maera's face lit up with delight. This was undoubtedly the same recipe and apple fingers that Helaena had craved when she was pregnant with the twins. Hanging from Maera's belt was a small silk purse, filled with silver and copper coins.

With a sense of authority, Maera revealed, "We represent the Crown and have been tasked with procuring this delightful treat." She continued, "The Queen has requested a daily tray of apple fingers to be brought to the castle by your sellers." Maera handed the purse to the youngest woman and instructed her, "This is your first payment. Please ensure all the apple fingers who have baked today are delivered to the Red Keep. We will inform the guards of your arrival.”

The youngest woman carefully emptied the purse and then divided the coins among her middle-aged and elderly relatives. She explained, "It's double what we usually charge, m’Lady."

Maera smiled warmly and reassured them, "Your cakes are exceptional, so it's well deserved. Please, make haste, the Queen can't wait all day." Grateful smiles filled their faces as they thanked Maera and even gave her a berry tart as a token of appreciation. Gratefully, the three women thanked Maera for her generosity, and the eldest woman offered her a berry tart as a token of their appreciation.

Ser Arryk and Maera walked away from the stall, glancing back to see the women quickly packing up their items to deliver them to the Keep, satisfied that they had achieved their mission of securing food for the Queen.

Four days passed, and Prince Aemond had not returned from his mission in the Iron Islands. Maera was growing increasingly worried about his absence and what that would mean for her future. The comment Aegon had made at the breakfast able over a week ago, although he claimed it was in jest, still caused a pit of anxiety to settle in Maera’s stomach. The faith would never approve of multiple wives under the Seven, but the Crown did need Maera’s inheritance for the war effort. And, as Aegon had already proven, if he wanted something he would take it.

In the meantime to quell the dreaded thoughts, Maera focused her attention on Helaena, who seemed greatly improved by the delicacies that had been delivered. Helaena snacked on the apple fingers and other sweet treats happily for most of the day. She had also taken to stomaching ginger tea, which helped with her nausea. Maera was delighted to see the color returning to her friend's face, and the castle seemed all the brighter for it.

The royal children had been made aware of their mother's pregnancy. While two-year-old Maelor showed little interest, the four-year-old twins, Jaehaerys and Jaehaera, seemed thrilled with the prospect of a new baby. They chatted animatedly about the idea of having a little brother or sister, their excitement filling the chambers with laughter and hope. Maera cherished the innocence of the children, grateful that they were shielded from the grim realities that brought about the existence of their new sibling and even their own lives.

Curious to involve the twins in the preparations for the new baby, Maera inquired about what gift they thought would be fitting. After a spirited debate and some playful arguing, Jaehaera proposed the idea of adding a painting to the children's nursery, specifically an image of a dragon egg for the new arrival. Maera found the suggestion delightful and readily agreed to take on the task.

In the intervals between her duties attending to the Queen and overseeing the wedding preparations, which her betrothed had not yet returned for, Maera devoted her time to gathering an array of paints and brushes for her project. She carefully selected the materials, ensuring she had the perfect tools to bring the envisioned dragon egg to life on the canvas.

One night during her quiet solitude, Maera resolved to begin her artistic endeavor by collecting various reference sketches of dragon eggs. When her maid Thena arrived to assist her in retiring for the evening, Maera declined her help, explaining that she needed to consult some sketches for inspiration, which were housed within the library's collection of books. Remaining in the same gown she had worn that day, Maera set off to the library accompanied by Ser Arryk.

Entering through the heavy wooden doors, the pair found the library lay empty, a sanctuary of solitude and silence. Rows upon rows of towering bookshelves, laden with tomes of knowledge and wisdom, stretched into the dimly lit distance, their titles and spines cloaked in the obscurity of the hour. The only illumination was the soft, flickering glow of candles that cast long shadows upon the polished wooden floors. Empty chairs and tables, usually host to eager scholars and seekers of knowledge, stood in silent vigil as the night enfolded the chamber.

“Stand guard at the doors, Ser Arryk. I wish for us to remain undisturbed,” Maera asked her sworn, protecter, to which he agreed, standing watch at the entrance. Despite the foreboding atmosphere of the deserted library, the presence of her loyal knight provided her with a sense of security, allowing her to focus on her task at hand without fear.

Candle in hand, Maera diligently perused through the volumes, carefully selecting a few books with the most detailed and captivating illustrations of dragon eggs. Gathering what she needed, she carried them back to a vacant desk before sitting herself down. Maera opened each book to the beautiful illustrations and procured pieces of parchment and charcoals, ready to begin.

Her green eyes, aglow with the soft candlelight, shifted between the books and the parchment before her, each careful stroke of the charcoal bringing the image to life. The golden ring of sapphires on Maera’s ring finger shone against the flickering flame as she continued to bring to life the intricate patterns and shadows of the dragon egg took shape on the page, its contours and details meticulously transcribed.

Upon completion of her sketches, Maera rose from the library desk, gathering the assortment of books she had used. As she began to pile them up, she also picked up the candle, casting a soft glow in the dim hall. She turned to leave, determined to return the books to their original places.However, in her haste, Maera stumbled slightly, her vision hindered by the dim light.

Ser Arryk, who had been guarding the door, immediately moved closer to her, offering to assist. He asked, "Are you sure you can manage, Lady Maera?"

Grateful for his concern, Maera replied with a warm smile, "Thank you, Ser Arryk, but I believe I'm more than capable." She then requested that he return to his post at the door to continue guarding while she completed the task. Ser Arryk nodded in agreement and resumed his position, allowing Maera to proceed.

Holding the candle to light her way, she carefully navigated the many rows of bookshelves to return the books to their proper locations. In a central aisle in the left corner of the library, near a beautiful tapestry depicting the Seven-Pointed star, Maera carefully placed her candle on a small wooden table, its warm glow casting a soft light on the nearby shelves. With precision, she began to slot each book from her pile back into its proper place, her delicate fingers handling the ancient tomes with great care.

As she turned to retrieve her light source, a sudden movement and a sound of rustling fabric startled Maera, causing her heart to race. The figure emerged from the shadows, staggering towards her with a distinct odor of ale and sweat wafting through the air. It swayed clumsily, colliding with a shelf, producing a light thud.Terrified but determined, Maera quickly grabbed the candle and lifted it to reveal the identity of this shadowy intruder.

To her astonishment, it was King Aegon, swaying to and fro next to the religious tapestry, his regal attire replaced by peasant clothes that hung disheveled upon his frame. The acrid scent of alcohol clung to him, an unmistakable trace of his inebriation. His silvery wavy locks were now a tangle of disarray, and his face bore the marks of an evening spent in revelry.

Maera's emerald d eyes bore into the King as she stood her ground, her mouth poised to summon Ser Arryk. Yet, Aegon, in his intoxicated state, managed a gentle giggle and a shushing gesture with his finger. Irritation welled up within Maera, but she refrained from calling for her sworn knight. She believed she could easily outmatch Aegon in his current pathetic, drunken condition.

She carefully placed the candle upon a nearby shelf, allowing its flickering light to reveal more of the walkway among the bookshelves, all the while fixing her gaze on the King. Her voice was tinged with annoyance as she whispered through clenched teeth, "What are you doing here?"

Aegon, still chuckling to himself, answered in a hushed tone, "Do you have your blood, Mayflower? You seem to be in a foul mood tonight." He continued with a mocking tone, "You should be happy, sister. There is a new babe to be born to me and it will soon be your wedding day!”

With unsteady steps, Aegon inched closer to her, his foot catching on the uneven stone floor, causing him to lurch forward, nearly stumbling.

Maera, her sarcasm biting, warned, "You should take care, my King. We would not want you injured like the last time you fell." The satisfying image of Aegon bloodied and groaning before her that day was a welcome one, but it was replaced with a grim reality. Maera beating the King within an inch of his life did not stop him raping her friend, nor did it prevent his seed from taking root. She had already avoided death at Aegon’s orders once, which was more than enough times for a person. She would have to tread carefully.

In Aegon’s inebriated state, he either did not hear Maera’s comment or did not understand its implications, choosing instead to ignore it and begin a drunken ramble. “I bet you never thought it would happen, did you? The Jewel of Rainwood becoming a Princess of the Realm.”

Maera raised an eyebrow, perplexed by the direction of Aegon's rambling as he continued, “You will be wife of a Prince and have expectations and duties upon your shoulders. It is your responsibility to produce as many heirs with my brooding brother as possible, for the good of the Realm. If he can even do it, that is.”

Her patience frayed, Maera snapped back, "I am well aware of my duties and expectations," and challenged Aegon, asking, "Who are you to lecture me on my responsibilities when you are such a pitiful excuse of a man?"

Aegon's temper flared. "Hold your tongue! I am your King!" Maera maintained her defiant glare as Aegon intensely stared at her, eyes wandering down her body before settling on the dragon-scaled sapphire ring on her hand. Maera rubbed the ring from Aemond in that moment, praying for an ounce of strength to get her out of the situation.

The King smirked to himself and continued, his speech, the words growing increasingly incoherent, "You certainly are close with Aemond now. It is like when we were children again. He always did cling to your skirts. But so much has changed now hasn’t it? He is a man and you have become a woman. Maybe my little brother gave you a taste of what being his wife will be like." Maera slowly backed away, her back against a ladder, trapping her in the corner. Fuck.

Aegon, with a sinister snicker, remarked, "Actually, Aemond probably has not given you a taste, being so pious and devoted to not straying toward sin. You can thank the Gods on your wedding night that I managed to get him to sleep with a whore at least once, so he at least knows what to do." With each word, he took a step closer to Maera, causing her to press further against the ladder, feeling trapped.

“Like you have mentioned, Mayflower, my seed has produced many offspring.” Aegon paused, seeing Maera’s eyes widen at his comment before he continued. “I suppose, with the wedding so near, it does not necessarily matter who puts a Targaryen baby in you." Maera, defiantly glaring at his threat, watched in horror as his arm extended out to touch her.

The next few moments unfolded in a chaotic blur for Maera. The tapestry rustled loudly in the air. The scent of leather and dragon smoke filled her senses. She caught a glimpse of black and silver. A heavy thud followed, as Aegon hit the floor, and the clanking of metal armor grew nearer. Ser Arryk swiftly appeared stood like a formidable wall between the two figures, turning briefly to Maera to ensure her safety. Maera, still in shock, managed a nod but remained frozen, her mind struggling to comprehend the scene before her.

Aegon, farthest from her, was pulling himself up from the floor, groaning in agony, his eyes wide in shock. And standing protectively in front of her, tall and imposing, facing the patethic excuse of a king was a figure clad in black leather who smelled of dragon smoke and the wind. His breaths came in ragged heaves and his long white hair was slightly disheveled from the altercation with Aegon. It was Prince Aemond. Her betrothed had returned.

Notes: Ahh I’m sorry I know it’s just a little bit of Aemond but at least he’s back! This chapter turned out waaaay longer than I originally thought so I split it up into two parts. The next part is spicy 🌶️

Tags: @blue-serendipity @manipulatixe @marvelescvpe @watercolorskyy @grungegrrrl @shesjustanothergeek

Thank you so much for reading! Comments, feedback, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated 🖤

[ilikekidsshows]

Another explanation for Chloe fans: as the-grey-tribe recently wrote, since the feminist movement was primarily formed to combat male abusers, a lot of feminism is adamant on "never giving people who oppose us a valid reason" (since that reason could then become an excuse for abuse). But if being a mean girl/female abuser is wrong, that gives others a valid reason to punish women, which might become abuse. So Chloe fans can't let anyone, creator or fan, have good reason to punish a teenage girl.

Yeah, it probably is some over-the-top feminism to some, I still see some people use "boss babe" unironically, after all (look up some info on “multilevel marketing” to discover how this term is used to manipulate and take advantage of women). However, the Miraculous Saltdom just generally cries "misogyny" like the little kid who cried "wolf" in that one fairytale, so I take all of their sexism-based arguments as using hype words to shield themselves from criticism. "You can't get mad at me for being unreasonable, because I'm fighting for feminism!"

As such, I still don't think that most Chloé apologists are in it for some actual social justice clout. If there's an actual motive other than just wanting to manipulate media and using any rhetoric to do so, it would probably be an age thing. A lot of Chloé apologists can't shut up about how Chloé is "fourteen years old". In fact, just a few days ago I, once again, saw someone screeching how that was all the reason needed to give Chloé a redemption. Because the younger you are, the more your sense of self is in flux. That's how it works for a real person (if you ignore the fact that most serial criminals started as nasty kids).

But Chloé isn't a real person.

Miraculous characters are fictional characters. They're not real people. Chloé being 14 doesn't matter, because Marinette is 14 too. It's a kids' show, so the characters are kids. They have some #relatable #kidproblems, but the rest of the time their age isn't a factor. Why on earth would Fu give the Miraculous to 14-year-olds? Even if he was purposefully not picking adults who are more powerful with a Miraculous and therefore more difficult to stop if they went rogue, he could have chosen anything in the 14-17 bracket (or even higher depending how “adult” is determined here). You guys know I waste no chance to dunk on Fu and what a crap mentor he is, but I have never brought up him choosing 14-year-olds to protect Paris, because I don't think it matters.

Master Fu chose 14-year-olds because kid protagonists are relatable to the target audience. In Naruto you can be a ninja when you turn 12 not because the world is a crapsack world with child soldiers and every single ninja is a child soldier instead of just the very specific kids traumatized by their experiences, but because kids wanna see kids as the protagonists in their shows. The reason Marinette and Adrien's romance is being depicted as a Miracle Romance ala Sailor Moon, where they'll totally stay together forever once they get there, is because Miraculous is fiction. In real life, you're very much not likely to stick with your middle-school sweetheart, in fiction, the universe itself revolves around that relationship.

Even when someone analysing the show is talking about how realistically Miraculous often portrays the teenage struggle of figuring yourself out, I feel like it's missing a very important point. This point is that Miraculous is a fictional, fantastical, story. Some parts of it are purposefully designed to be relatable, but others are pure wish fulfilment or exist solely to move the story into a certain direction. Arguing that something is 100% acceptable because it's realistic for kids, and then simultaneously turning a blind eye to everything in the show that spits in the face of age-based realism is a biased way of looking at the show. Max programmed a fully sentient A.I. at fourteen, Adrien is the most popular celebrity in Paris, despite just being a barely-teen heartthrob. You can't just decide the line suddenly goes here, where a show about kid characters has a kid villain. If some of these things are okay because it's just fiction, then all the things about the characters should be okay because it's just fiction. Media analysis is specifically discussing a piece of media based on it being a piece of media, not a biography of the teen experience.

This is why I'm one of the people not in a hurry to get to the Ladynoir reveal or the Adrinette get together. I can accept that Miraculous, as a fictional story, is drawing out the big changes in its status quo because they haven't yet utilized the status quo in all the stories they want. I can see the clockwork gears and watch them move, I'm not staring at the clock face waiting for a specific time to come.

This is probably also why I'm so fine with Chloé and Lila being villains, and cartoony villains at that. Sure, it's maybe not realistic that they're so vile (as hinted before, serial killers weren't nice kids either so I still argue that even in the name of "realism" it checks out) or get away with stuff so easily, but it sure is consistent with their characterization and the fictional universe they live in. This piece of media is sticking with what has been established earlier in the series and that's good. That's how a piece of media is supposed to work, because it shows that the creators care enough to keep track of their characters and world building.

[punksarahreese]

“You lost your chance.” Maybe for undertow? 👀👀

CW: Joey 🤢

***

“Sarah?”

The brunette looked up at the sound of her roommate’s voice, twisting a bit to look back at the shore. She was at the far end of the dock near their house, feet dangling in the water and mind far off. Crockett was holding her phone, his own surfboard tucked under his arm like he was planning on going out. She stood on shaky legs, the right one having fallen asleep probably ten minutes before. Once she made it to the other end of the dock, she jumped off, meeting Crockett at the shoreline.

“Your phone’s been ringing like crazy,” he said as he pressed the device into her hand, “It’s the jackass again.”

Sarah had to laugh at that, the curse sounding so funny coming from his mouth. Still, she knew exactly who he was referring to and her heart sank a little. She really thought she had escaped the endless calls and bullshit. Bold of her to assume he would take the hint from her moving to a whole other continent, apparently.

“Lovely,” she huffed, “You going out? The waves look good a little further East.”

“Yeah, I’ll be back before sundown. Pizza tonight?”

“Sounds good,” with that she shooed her roommate away, just as her phone started chirping shrilly. She sighed, knowing it would only get worse if she didn’t respond. Still, she knew she could just block his number and cut him off completely. That certainly sounded more desirable but Sarah was too nice to do that, picking up the phone just before it went to voicemail.

“What?”

“Hello to you too,” the voice on the other end made Sarah want to hang up immediately, sounding way too smug for her liking. She hated him, she really did, and she wished she had understood that all those months ago back home.

“Seriously, what do you want, Joey?”

“To talk to my girlfriend, obviously.”

That had Sarah’s blood boiling, “I am not your anything. We broke up months ago.”

“You broke up with me, I don’t remember agreeing to that. I think you were being a bit brash, I deserve another chance, Sarah.”

“You lost your chance,” she spat, “You dug that grave when you tried to control my life, now it's time to lay in it.”

“I just think that-”

“You just think that women shouldn’t be in science. I know, you made that pretty fucking clear, Joey. I’m done, I said that months ago.”

“Can you calm down? I just want to talk.”

“No! I don’t want to talk about this anymore. You were the one who wanted me to pick between my job and education and you. You just have to live with the fact that I chose the ocean over you, get over it.”

“You chose him over me.”

The accusatory tone had Sarah scoffing, “Crockett? He’s my roommate and my best friend. Even if he wasn’t, he’s gay, dumbass.”

“Right, of course-”

“If the next thing you say is anything homophobic I will hang up on your ass.”

“Calm down, babe.”

“Don’t fucking call me that! Will you just let it go, Joseph? I moved to a whole other continent and you’re still not getting it, are you?”

She didn’t dignify any response he had, hanging up seconds later. Some part of her said she was being mean, should just hear him out, but she squashed that thought immediately. He had been nothing but controlling and manipulative since they started dating eight months before, trying to get Sarah to drop her research opportunities and be his perfect little housewife before they even thought about a long term relationship. A woman’s place wasn’t in the ocean and it certainly wasn’t in the lab, in Joey’s eyes, and that ideal was the final breaking point. Sarah would never let anyone get in the way of her love for marine life, especially not some man. She should have blocked him the second she left Chicago, but better late than never she supposed as she clicked the block button under his contact.

Her life was perfect now, safe and doing what she loved with her best friend. She didn’t need him anymore, not here, and he couldn’t hurt her any longer. She would never give him power over her again. Sarah reclaimed her freedom the second she chose to move to another hemisphere and she would never go back on that. This was her life now and she would be a successful biologist, her wish to continue this dream only fueled by his sheer misogyny.

[royisms]

annekane asked: false god by taylor swift

so here’s a long ass thing i did that deiniftely doesn’t answer the question and nobody asked for but did that stop me? no.

Harvard University: Government Major

     -- Dated for five months in freshman year. Jason was in her Economy class and they didn’t talk until after the term was over. They met met at a bar near campus and it took her exactly those five months to realize that they wanted opposite things. He was looking for a long term girlfriend, and Amanda was already not about that life. She took the end of the year as an excuse and ended things before moving back home for the summer.

     -- Hookup in freshman year. Some guy on the debate team that beat her on the last round. It didn’t last long (in more than one way), but there was something about competition that was so exciting already. 

     -- Dated? in sophomore year: it’s been over twenty years and Amanda’s still utterly confused about this guy. She was certain they were only sleeping together, he apparently was sure that they were an item. It didn’t end well. Someone saw her flirting with some other guy and Bruno god stupid angry and it kind of looked like a scene out of a comedy series. They were having totally different conversations, but bottom line was she broke his heart.

     -- Hookup during the summer between sophomore and junior years: Amanda was as  vanilla as it got because she never ever had sex ed in school (shocking) and she hadn’t had enough partners and enough confidence to try things out. Xavier was her first experience with an older guy (she was 20, he was 28) and he taught her things about herself. They didn’t talk too much, he picked her up and dropped her off just around the corner of her house so her parents wouldn’t ask whose car it was. He was an incredible kisser and the fact that he paid her any attention at all made her feel all the more mature. He even paid for the morning after pill that one time. So sweet.

     -- Hookup in junior year: at that one party, her roommate and her were dared to kiss and Amanda was That Girl and was also way past tipsy and it kinda seemed like a good idea. Callie and her were in the same classes, too, and they both pretended it had never happened. To be fair, Amanda couldn’t even recall if the kiss had been good the next morning.

     -- Dated for four months: Phil. Kinda lame, but had an okay sense of humour and he sat through extremely lengthy conversations with her and Oliver about the undoubtable and unavoidable demise of humanity. Evidently, he did it because he thought she owed her after, and she wasn’t informed enough to know she didn’t, so she lay down for two and a half minutes, cleaned up after and said she was tired and she’d see him the next day because he was really weird to share a bed with. After using all the clichés she knew to say she didn’t want to see him anymore, he decided to ignore her not very subtle hints and kept calling and showing up with take out. Phil really is a boring name for a boring man who needed a smack on the head and a book on women’s rights. Also: https://royisms.tumblr.com/post/621230604961333248/i-wish-i-missed-my-ex-mahalia

      -- Fell for Marcus in junior year: this time, it was the other way around. She was completely enamoured by him (looking back, it was the fact that he had a full academic scholarship he didn’t need and him being a guy her age who wasn’t a complete waste of space). There were rumours but she decided to ignore them and they came back to bite her in the ass. If she remembers correctly, that was the first time Oliver held back an “I told you”, but maybe she just didn’t hear him because she was sobbing into her pillow and screaming about how men were all the same and how could she have been so stupid. Not only a borken heart, but Marcus also gave her an STD! Thanks babe!

Georgetown University: Masters in Public Policy 

     -- Hooked up with her first Grad professor: because she’s a dumb bitch who doesn’t learn. He was only five years older but being in a position where he was way more powerful gave her such a rush. They wouldn’t talk in class, but she’d look at him from across the room and give him a look because it earned her some rough loving when they were finally behind closed doors. He eventually stopped calling her when she passed his class and he found another student to sleep with. Anyway... That’s systemic misogyny for you.

     -- Dated for eight months in 2003 - 2004: Joshua. Maybe the first relationship she’d consider serious. She had her own room for the first time in years and so did he, and they spent most nights together. With working on top of studying and her lack of time-management skills, she didn’t spend too much time with friends and, instead, they became each other’s support system. In the end, they liked each other because they didn’t have others who’d stand by them while they got consumed in their textbooks and not because they had too much in common. He’s now probably a Republican mayor in some town and he’s balding so she calls this one a win for sure.

Started to work for her father’s consultancy to dip her toe into electoral strategy.

     -- Hooked up with: Frank. A lawyer who’d just joined the consultancy business. She met him at an event she was assisting in. He was also struggling to pay rent but he was much better at hiding it and his neat hair and grey tux (and her lack of human touch in months) earned him a willing young blonde eager to get out of her heels and into his bed. They were done by 12:13am and he kicked her out, didn’t even call her a cab. Definitely not what she’d pictured for her first month as an official adult.

Didn’t date anyone, finally decided to officially put her career first and not focus on men. Also, started going to a therapist for the first time! This was great. We love mental health. Started to think about leaving her dad’s business and work on something else. Consultancy was okay but she really wanted to make an impact on the world, have a legacy... Yada yada.  

     -- Hooked up with: Luke. Her friend stood her up at the bar because she met some dude and Amanda was forcefully introduced to the beauty of drinking alone. This guy used the classic ‘pretending to be your boyfriend when a stranger is hitting on you to get them off but then I ask for your number so you’re uncomfortable again but I win so who cares’ move. She was tipsy enough that she didn’t care he didn’t have a condom. Unfortunately, her bank account disagreed when she withdrew the cash necessary for Planned Parenthood. You know what, fuck you Luke.

She took on more responsibilities at the office and eventually gathered enough to have her own clients. Granted, she still worked for an office, but her dad was close to retiring and she was proud of her own accomplishments. People actually called in and requested her by this point! Amazing progress. She was never working on campaigns alone because Youth and also men were still in charge lmao let’s not forget!! But hey. It’s something.

     -- Hooked up with: Samuel. He wasn’t a client anymore and he was a little younger than her, actually. He was also a Republican. Something about him winning the election with her help and her getting praise over the work she’d done by her peers made her reach out in 2010. One glass of wine became two and three. She kicked him out in the morning, and as far as she’s concerned his wife never found out.

     --  Dated (on and off) for one year and a half 2011 - 2012: Doh. He was a rising journalist, he’d written a big piece on something sketchy that had happened in Congress and he’d scored an important job, and he still wasn’t as busy as Amanda made herself. It was one year full of half-fights because, as if on cue, her phone would always start ringing and she’d pick it up without hesitation. In the end, he was too tired to explain, and she didn’t really want to hear it. By this point, she’d already started shooting people an annoyed look when they asked when she’d finally have children.

Her dad retired and his partner bought his half of the business. Amanda decided to leave the company; with the connections she’d secured during her many years as an assistant, she was finally able to consult on her own. 

     -- Hooked up with: Paarush. What was supposed to be a night of unwinding and letting herself go ended in too tight of a grip and some deep bruises on her neck. She had to wear a scarf for days to avoid any inappropriate questions.

     -- Dated for two years: Peter. Professionally, she was getting places she’d never even dreamed of and, as it had happened before, she was putting her career before anything else. She started seeing Peter after a friend of a friend introduced them and he was sweet. He was an economist and he wasn’t as busy as her, but he seemed to understand. The first few months, he’d call her at night and listen to her rant about her day, he’d check in on the weekends and wouldn’t get mad when she forgot to return his call. A few months in, he asked for the spare key to her place and it made sense, because he’d get there so much earlier than her. She’d arrive and he would have made dinner because he knew she’d forget to eat otherwise. It started small: something about the clients she was working for, how she should just stay home, comments about how good of a mother she’d be even though she’d made it very clear she had no intention in having children. By the end, it was about her beliefs and her impossibility to be empathetic with him. Most of all, he repeated over and over how she was so innocent to believe she could make a change in the world. It was hard to part ways because it was so comfortable -- they’d fallen into a routine that had taken a lot of weight off her shoulders for a while, but when she changed the lock of her apartment and refused to talk to him, she really believed she was better off without him.

     -- Hooked up with: Hans. As far as she’s concerned, he definitely wasn’t the worst man she’d slept with. Need I say more?

Started working for Oliver as his Chief of Staff. A new job, new staff, new line of work altogether, it was… Big. Not too much time for dating but she deprived herself of sleep. 

     -- Hooked up with: Javier. Not a Republican, but a conservative Democrat. He was on his way to become Mayor of Louisville (thanks to her, mostly). Again, winning is exciting, and she’s a simple woman with needs.

     -- Dated for nine months: Charlie. They matched on Tinder and Amanda messaged them with a line she thought was funny and cheeky, it probably wasn’t but for whatever reason, Charlie messaged her back. They met at a bar and hit it off almost immediately, and - wow, sleeping with someone she didn’t hate was a welcomed change. They were the first (and, so far, only) person she dated who wasn’t a man. It was a little scary at first, to be honest -- she’s a feminist, she’s liberal, she’s progressive, and she’s nice, but it was a new experience and she didn’t want to say the wrong thing. In the end, they were both too busy to keep up with a relationship. Fun fact: they both decided to break up on the same night so they were dumper and dumpee all the same. Amanda was not amused at the time, she hadn’t been dumped in so long, but hey… They didn’t talk for a while, but then ran into each other at some event or the other, one thing led to another… They definitely hooked up a few times after breaking up, but both made sure there weren’t any romantic feelings left there. That would’ve been Awkward.

Election season started and, with that, her new position as Campaign Manager for Zafar 2020. Later, she’d become Deputy Campaign Manager for Berkeley-Zafar 2020. She’s working way more hours and definitely doesn’t have time for men. Or does she! You know what I’m talking about.

     -- Did not date for nine months: Silas. There are many things she could say about him, but she won’t because it never happened. Outside of her bedroom, and his (and… His office, and the restroom at that one bar), this never happened. She never sent him flowers, he never put on his cat to meow through the phone to her, they never shared a lazy Sunday morning with coffee in bed and books unrelated to work. And he’s definitely not the man who “I can't talk to you when you're like this, staring out the window like I'm not your favorite town” was written about.

[duckfresco]

Ashes

Rating: T Tags:  Nicaise Lives,Unreliable Narrator,Post-KR,canon-typical disrespect for sex workers/slight ableist language/existence of slavery,mentions of rape,discussions of pedophilia,misogyny,(some of it internalized :/),abuse,APFA: Abandoned People Forming Alliances Summary: Jokaste has fled Akielos; she finds Nicaise, alive, at a tacky inn in Patras, and takes him under her wing.

(Also on AO3 -->)

      Ashes: scattered at funerals, symbolize death and provide soil for rich regrowth. In Greek myth, the Melai Nymphs of the manna-ash tree raised Zeus and were the mothers of humankind. In 19th century floriography, which was greatly influenced by Louise Cortambert’s Le Langage des Fleurs and B. Delachênaye’s Abécédaire de Flore, ash symbolizes grandeur and protection.

When she saw him, she recognized him, but she was the only one that did. That was good. It had saved his life.

Without the paint, or the jewels, or the swaths of silk too sheer for a child to be wearing, he looked both older and younger all at once. Older, because you could see the tension around his eyes, the tiredness, and because he no longer looked like he was playing dress-up in a grown-up relative’s clothing. Younger, because without makeup he was fresh-faced, and there was an innocence to scrubbed skin.

Jokaste could have told him to leave off the paint. But he liked the ostentatiousness of it, she knew; he liked to feel different from other people. Above them. It was something they shared, though her tastes had the refined elegance of a woman, not a child.

(Damen would have been horrified at the concept of her helping him retain his position. It was a horror, but making a lofty moral stand would do the boy no favors. Damen had never understood that most people in power broke their toys when they tired of them.) (Even in the slave baths, Damen had not known what it was to submit in order to survive.)

He recognized her, too. When she stepped in the door of the inn his face grew pale. He dropped his ladle. Jokaste smiled at him. Warmly, because he was smart enough to be frightened by it. She strolled over to the counter and collected a bowl, holding it out to him in a delicate grip that showed her slender arm to good effect. “I thought,” she said sweetly, “there would be food.” The ladle lay on the floor between them. Hidden by the counter, true, but the difference that made was negligible. Nicaise flushed. In order to serve her, he would have to bend down and get it, and then wash it in the tub that Jokaste could see behind him, all with her watching him.

“Where’s the brat,” said Nicaise. A hiss. He was smart; he knew what to aim for. It was a pity, for him, that Jokaste had learned to conceal a landed hit. (They had taken him, her child, her son, her son—)

Jokaste said, “I am waiting for him to serve me dinner.” She tilted the bowl the barest noticeable fraction. It drew attention to the fine bones in her wrist. The roughs in the tavern, already drooling for her, could not have appreciated the subtlety of the motion—had likely not even noticed she had made it— but Nicaise’s eyes glittered.

What’s the difference between a woman and a whore? A nobleman had asked his friend once, in Jokaste’s hearing. That’s easy. One of them exists to suck your cock. The other one’s the whore.

(It had been two centuries since there had been a Queen Exalted of Akielos. When she had been a young girl, and as naïve as she had thought herself wise, Jokaste had pinned a portrait of Queen Kydippe to her wall and told her, you will not be the last.)

(When she had been a young girl.)

“Boy!” The shout came from the kitchen behind Nicaise. He turned swifter than Jokaste had ever seen him do so, when the Regent of Vere had taken him on the short, clandestine visit to Ios that felt so long ago.  Theomedes had still been alive. Kastor had taken Jokaste to the meeting because Nicaise had been there; a pet for a pet. It had been demeaning, but the information too valuable to pass up.

Nicaise took the blow the red-faced man gave him across the face without making a sound. Jokaste smoothed down the front of her skirt to conceal her flinch. She met the rheumy eyes of the man—then innkeeper, probably, from the stained apron stretched over his potlike stomach—and raised a single cool eyebrow. “Sorry you had to see that, ma’am,” the innkeeper said. Surprisingly, he sounded like he meant it. Jokaste waited, the picture of delicate patience, and tried not to let the appellation perturb her. She had expected miss. The changes that childbirth had wrought in her body were inconvenient.

“I can forgive it,” said Jokaste. Accompanied by a glance around the walls, and the barest sniff, she was a noblewoman who had settled for a rustic wayside hovel; with a smile, tight but indulgent, she was making the best of it. A generous noblewoman, who would not bring the matter to her lord. As long as she was offered, from here out, the finest choice of hospitality. The innkeeper did not know the danger in her pleasant tone, and relaxed even as he bowed, tugging Nicaise down beside him. “Lady. My deepest apologies, again. I’ll have the boy prepare the best room for you.”

“That would be well,” said Jokaste. She used the weakness of relief to allow a hint of road-weariness to color the words, as if she were not used to hard travel (she hadn’t been, until this past month). Hers was not a ruse that would retain credibility for much longer. Though Jokaste washed herself and her gown in every stream she came across, both were showing signs of wear. For now, however, it would pass. The innkeeper’s spine straightened under the shred of gratitude. She had him. “My belongings are outside, with the horses. My men will spend the night with them the stable. They don’t like to be disturbed.” There were no men, and only one horse, an aged mare with grey-spotted withers that she had charmed from a miller in the first town she had come across. Damianos might not have followed her, might even have stood the loss of a warhorse, foolishly bighearted as he was, but a lone woman and a highbred destrier would have been too much temptation to flaunt on the open road.  As Jokaste had been hoping, the innkeeper shoved Nicaise towards the door with a sharp order to bring the Lady’s men food and wine, and see to her luggage. Nicaise would already have known that her presence here, alone, meant that she was out of favor. It was unpleasant, that he knew, but better he than anyone else in the inn. There was no fear that Nicaise would have her up against the wall of the stable with a hand over her mouth, the way these men would if they sensed they could get away with it.

“You’re a bit young to be the house boy,” Jokaste said later that evening, when Nicaise, sulking, delivered a sloppily-arranged tray of breads and cheeses to her room. The best the inn offered boasted the unparalleled luxury of a lumpy mattress and a window that was two handspands wide instead of one. Jokaste thought of the feathersoft cushions she had known in the palace, the whole wall open over the white-tipped waves of the sea, and chose to sit in the rickety chair before the fire. She adjusted her seat, daintily, and struck.  “Still.”

Nicaise had a blemish on the end of his nose. It turned purple when the rest of his face turned red. “Did Kastor throw you out after you dropped his bastard, or before? Oh wait. I forgot. He’s a bastard too.”

Calmly, Jokaste took a sip of the water she had poured into the cup from the nightstand. She had known, when when she had stopped taking the herbs to prevent pregnancy before visiting Kastor’s bed, that her child would be born a bastard. Nicaise, used to the Veretian abhorrence of illegitimacy and only a child, had miscalculated the size of that blow. It was more of a gentle tap, really. (It hurt, that she had not a name to call her son by. In Akielos the prerogative of naming went to the father. To allow Kastor to name her son would have been to confirm him that, the father, and Jokaste would have lost the leverage that she had paid for in the ravage of her own body.) (Her breasts no longer swelled with milk. It had been too long since she had had a babe to put to them.)

Jokaste looked at Nicaise, in his ill-fitting, coarse-woven Patran tunic, his eye puffy with the forming bruise. At fourteen, Jokaste had dismissed a chambermaid for a loose thread in the weave of her least-favorite gown. At fourteen, Jokaste had been a virgin. “You could pass, almost, for my younger brother,” she said. “I don’t need you,” said Nicaise. “I don’t need anyone.” Jokaste snuck out of the inn early the next morning, before the pre-dawn light, because of course she had no coin to pay. It was easier than the first time she had done it, if no less humiliating. Of guilt she felt nothing. She did not like innkeepers who hit young boys. Nicaise was waiting for her, her mare already saddled (badly, like Jokaste’s first attempts), holding the reins of another horse that must have belonged to one of the tavern roughs from last night. “They’ll chase the horse,” she said.

“I’m not walking,” Nicaise sneered.

“Aren’t you?” Jokaste inquired politely.

There was a basket in Nicaise’s hand, with a long strap for carrying. The mare lipped at it curiously when he drew it over his head, and Nicaise shoved her nose away with the impatience of having done it many times before.

Jokaste had wondered what he had done with the food he had brought to her “men.” She smiled.

“Where are we going?” Nicaise asked, on the third day. Jokaste was surprised it had taken him that long. She supposed he might have been in shock. “The Patran court,” said Jokaste, because it served her better to have Nicaise think he had time to prepare. The boy’s face fell; he tried to rescue it, and failed. “Did you think I came all the way here to turn around and leave? We’re staying in Patras, for a while.”

“Patras,” Nicaise said, and spat.

Patras, where they had sent her son, a clause at the bottom of a treaty to keep the other side from poisoning your dinner wine. Jokaste had always intended him to be a piece in the game. Please, gods-that-were, thought Jokaste, let him not have been killed as well.

(Only fools worshipped the gods, anymore. They were stuff of legends and songs; they did not stoop to help these newer mortals. Jokaste’s mother had been a priestess, in a temple that was derelict as all temples were nowadays. She had died praying. It hadn’t saved her.)

They crossed a peddler going the opposite direction, an old woman, and shared a meal with her for the protection of the long knife thrust through her belt. She had snow-white whiskers and called Nicaise young man, clearly thinking it a compliment. When she was gone Jokaste held Nicaise’s hair back while he vomited.

“He used to compare me,” Nicaise said, glassy-eyed in the aftermath. “He used to point to the other pets and say, look how old they are. How ugly. Not like you. He used to say—“ “Stop,” said Jokaste. In another moment she would be retching as well, and they could not afford to lose two portions of their meager food supply.

“He loves me,” Nicaise said. His forehead was damp with sweat. “No one’s ever loved you.”

One man did, thought Jokaste, and I betrayed him. “Is that why he killed you?” she asked. “I made a mistake. He was angry. I can apologize. I can make it up to him.”

“Damianos and your Veretian Prince will have had him executed by now,” said Jokaste. Until she said it, she had not realized that it was true. “Kastor will be imprisoned, if not dead himself. There is no place for either of us in Akielos or Vere.”

“That’s not true!” His limbs were trembling, fragile bones butting up against each other under his skin. He was very thin. “You’re an old hag and you don’t know anything. It’s your barbarian slave king that’s dead. It’s Laurent—“ his voice sputtered and went out. For a moment, it seemed he would start crying.

Saying the name aloud had undone him. If Jokaste were a kind woman, she would open her arms and allow Nicaise to protest he didn’t need coddling while he folded against her chest. Jokaste was not a kind woman.

“I wonder who it was, the child he killed to pretend they were you,” she mused. “Well. Had killed. He doesn’t get his hands dirty, does he? Not in daylight. Whoever it was must have borne a passing resemblance. Prince Laurent was convinced.”

(He’s a child, said Damen’s shocked voice in her mind. He doesn’t deserve cruelty like this.) (Oh, Damianos. Neither did you, and yet the chains came down on your proud-lion head anyway. Wouldn’t it have been better to be prepared?)

“The only reason they didn’t kill you too is that you don’t matter anymore,” said Nicaise. It was a flailing blow, from a boy who had already been beaten, but Jokaste felt her chest collapse around it. She remembered Damen, when he had come to Karthas, the steel in his eyes that had not been there before. She remembered him delegating her to his under-soldiers, like an afterthought. She remembered the Veretian Prince’s hair…more than that, his mind, matching point-for-point with her in the dungeon. She remembered again her cushions and her sea-view. The Queen’s apartments would be Laurent’s, now, for what little time he spent in them. If Jokaste was right, and they had won, then Laurent now had two kingdoms where Jokaste had never truly had one. And Damen. She had never truly had Damen either, Jokaste was learning. That was the trouble with playing both sides. You forgot that the love of an honest man cost everything.

(What of the love of an honest woman? That’s easy, said the nobleman, in Jokaste’s head. There is no such thing.)

(Once upon a time, Jokaste had kissed Lykaios on her full rich mouth and thought, there is a sweetness here that even I cannot bear to corrupt. For days after even persimmons had tasted of dust.)

Damen would have killed her if Laurent had not set her free.

A mocking laugh, hysterical, shattered her memory. Nicaise. Hatred was a spear, pointed and bloody, and Nicaise was at the end of it.

(Which end? asked Damen.)

(Shut up, said Jokaste.)

They stood in the grass on the side of the road, a body’s length apart. Jokaste had staggered back from him. Nicaise, the contents of his stomach on the ground before him, was pathetic in victory.

“He loves me,” Nicaise repeated. A whimper. A plea. Jokaste thought, the man who did this has had control of my son.

(Battlefields were not the only place where kings extracted their toll of flesh.)

Jokaste’s feet were a ruin. She had to preserve the mare, to carry her laughably meager possessions and to be ready to bolt if Jokaste needed to flee quickly. The fine sandals she had worn at court were useless on the dirt and rocks. Every night, whether they found an inn or camped outside, she tore strips from the undyed cotton she had stolen for her menstrual cycle and bandaged her feet anew.

She had been jealous of Nicaise’s covered boots until she looked closely one night and saw that all of his toenails were blackened, and not a few of them falling off. Pets, she recalled, like slaves, did not wear shoes.

When Jokaste put Nicaise up on the horse the next morning, for once he didn’t gloat. He did name the the mare “Old Grey Akielon Bitch,” but it was more to keep his hand in than anything else.

Whenever it was possible they spent the night at an inn, sneaking out again before daybreak.  In a mining town deep in a series of foothills that never quite became mountains, they were crowded to a corner of the taproom by a boisterous group of traveling players who drank enough to topple a wild boar and incessantly tuned their instruments. Jokaste did not appreciate being jostled cheek-by-jowl with a large man and his rice drum, the coarse stone wall scraping at her other side. At least he had not been the lutist, who had leered and made leading comments about her cleavage before Nicaise had jabbed him in a sensitive area with his soup spoon.

As the night wore on and the players showed no signs of retiring, the call went up for entertainment. Obligingly—they knew a chance for advertisement when they saw one—the players cleared a central table to act as a stage and performed a series of capers and bawdies that had everyone but Jokaste and Nicaise howling. During the third round of a song featuring an improbably tiny green kerchief, Nicaise tried to throw his bowl at them. Jokaste stopped him just in time.

At last, when it was so late Jokaste was drawing up mental contingencies in case they didn’t have time to make their escape, the worst of the rabble and their audience stumbled out to drink or fuck or collapse in a heap until morning. A pair of women remained—sisters from their faces, perhaps even twins, dark-haired and pretty—one of them plucking idly at a curiously shaped wooden harp she held propped with one end in her lap and the other on a stool in front of her. The other woman glanced around the emptied-out taproom and smiled when she saw Jokaste and Nicaise. “What would you like?” she asked. She was wearing ropes of beads in her hair and down the front of her dress; all colors, blue and red and yellow and the rest.

“To sleep,” said Jokaste. She knew she sounded weary. She was. Nicaise shifted, his wooden stool creaking. He had been startled by her sincerity.

“I can help with that,” said the woman. Briefly, she consulted with her sister, who gathered the aimless notes she had been playing into a tune. She sang, like a soft wind:

My childhood Was a beaten copper bracelet that I wore around my wrist, it was My mother’s. My mother Had a beaten silver cup into which she poured her wine, the wine Was summer. The summer Was a woven rose-gold chain that I gifted to my true love When I held her heart in mine.

Her voice was low and had been trained by somebody who knew what they were doing. Jokaste closed her eyes and tilted her head back against the wall. After a moment she felt Nicaise slump forward, resting his head on the surface of the table. After two moments he was asleep; his breath stirred the hair on Jokaste’s arm. She wondered if her own son would trust her as much, when she saw him, or if he would shy away from the touch of a stranger.

They arrived at Bazal in the height of summer, which was cooler than summer in Ios but far more dry. Jokaste’s skin had reddened, flaked, and reddened again under the unrelenting sun, and her mouth was perpetually parched. Nicaise was no better. Before they could present themselves (to the younger Prince, most likely, lesser sons being somewhat of Jokaste’s specialty), they would have to make those selves presentable.

The bathhouse was very kind to a young Akielon noblewoman who had suffered her clothes stolen while she took a dip in a stream to cool off in the terrible heat. Her young cousin, who had heroically chased after the thieves but hadn’t been able to catch them (wasn’t it a pity he hadn’t gained his man’s height or strength yet, he hadn’t had a chance), was equally welcome. “Your breasts are saggy,” said Nicaise.

“You’re getting another pimple on your chin,” said Jokaste.

When they petitioned an audience before Prince Torveld (Jokaste had met him, briefly, on a state visit; Nicaise must have also, on a different one), they were washed, brushed, and dressed in gifted clothes equally foreign to them both. The high collar and full-length sleeves of the Patran dress were stifling, the hairstyle uninspired and severe. It made Jokaste’s nose look big. Nicaise, with his Veretian heritage, was more comfortable in his tunic and pants, but ruined the effect by glowering at the floor as if it had done him a personal wrong.

They had been on the road so long that the number of slaves was startling. In Patras, slaves did not go naked, but they were easily identifiable by their subservience and their tasteful docility. Jokaste had become used to having to do things for herself; to have a fingerbowl of water appear before her, unobtrusively held, was unsettling. It was less than she had been used to in Ios, Jokaste reminded herself. Rinsing her hands was a strangely self-conscious act. As was sipping the wine, provided likewise, and nibbling on the pieces of cut fruit.

Prince Torveld was himself speaking to a slave when they were let into his audience hall, their heads close together, postures intimate. The herald who announced them looked exasperated but not surprised. He cleared his throat. “The Lady Jokaste,” he said, “and the boy Nicaise.” It had been long since Jokaste had heard herself referred to like that, all together, both Lady and Jokaste. She breathed out, slow, and felt it settle around her. For a moment she was almost home.

(Foolishness. Her home had died when she had ordered the slave collar locked around Damen’s neck, and now it belonged to a cunning yellow Veretian and a man who thought of her not at all.)

(In the window that overlooked the sea, she had planted marigolds.)

Torveld looked up. He had a face inclined to kindness, but for the time being it had been overtaken by wariness instead. “You have asked an audience of me. I have granted it. What is it that you wish to ask of me?” “I know that one,” hissed Nicaise into Jokaste’s ear (he had to stand on his tiptoes to reach it). “The slave. He’s Urus—Eran—Erasmus. He came with Damen to Arles. He’s a limp fish. I poked him some, but it got boring.”

At the sound of Nicaise’s voice Erasmus noticed him and blanched, hiding behind Torveld. Whatever Nicaise had done to him had left a lasting impression. A feeling suspiciously close to pride fluttered in Jokaste’s chest.

Prince Torveld was less receptive. “The Prince of Vere is my friend,” he said. Unlikely, though you probably think so, thought Jokaste, recalling to mind a clever face, an intricately brutal tongue. People like that (like them) did not make friends. They made profitable acquaintances. “It does not please me to extend sanctuary to his enemies,” Torveld continued, stern. “If you have business here, other than baseless slander, I would have it now.” Half-hidden by the chair, he grasped Erasmus’ hand, and Erasmus quieted. Jokaste felt the pinch in her brow and smoothed it over.

“My Prince,” she said, modulating her tone to appear deferential, flattering, subtly sensuous. She sank into a curtsy in the Patran style, grace practiced to perfection. Nicaise made a grudging genuflection to her left. “I am saddened to hear that such tales of my reputation have spread so far. I promise you, I am here only to ensure the safety of that for which I love more than my life.” She paused, letting a ripple of sorrow across her expression. “My son.”

Torveld was still suspicious: he was not, unfortunately, an idiot. Still, he was a gentlehearted man, and she had caught his attention. “Your son?”

With an effort of will, Jokaste quelled the urge to wet her lips in nervousness. No; perhaps that would help her, in this case. She allowed it. “You may have heard of my…situation, when I was of late in Akielos.” “I have.” Torveld’s voice was as iron. Poor man, he probably thought it gave away nothing.

“I say to you now that I did not know of the plot to demean King Damianos so and take his country for him. I truly thought him murdered.” Jokaste let her eyes fill with tears. Only enough to threaten a few, glittering drops, not enough to redden her nose and affect her beauty. “I thought only of my child, and when he was taken from me, I realized the viper’s nest that had surrounded me.” “Enough,” said Torveld. “I know you trade in falsehoods. But your love for your child is the one sincere thing about you. You are fortunate that Patras is better at catching, and punishing, traitors than Akielos is. I anticipated this.” He gestured with a hand over his shoulder. A door opened behind him, and Jokaste felt Nicaise tense beside her as her own pulse sped. If this had been another miscalculation—if now they were to be brought to their deaths, after traveling so far— A woman stepped through the door, holding a bundle in her arms, and Jokaste

saw her son “He’s gotten so big,” she murmured. It was the only coherent thing she could manage. She ached for the loss of seeing each new millimetre of fat around his cheeks and his pudgy arms, every shaky movement that allowed him, now, to lift his head just enough to fix his eyes on her face. She was across the room. Her son was in her arms. He smelled exactly the way she remembered. Jokaste pressed her cheek to the top of his tiny baby head and rocked him against her. “I have no lost child to offer you,” Torveld was saying to Nicaise. “I cannot imagine a reason for you to be here, especially after how you have treated Erasmus. State your purpose.” Nicaise’s hands shook. He curled them into fists at his sides, “You knew what he was doing,” he said. His voice possessed the sharp, clear quality of shattered crystal. “You were in Vere. You were an outsider. He couldn’t have reached you, when you returned to Patras. You saw what was happening, and you didn’t stop it.”

In the back corner of her mind, where she was not kissing every inch of her son’s face and counting his perfect fingers and toes to make sure they were all still there, Jokaste heard the hall go silent. The courtiers that had lingered around the edges of the railinged balconies above had frozen. Torveld was as stone in his simply-carved chair at the end of the carpet; his face was bloodless. Somebody dropped a book, and the pages battered each other on the way down. Erasmus sucked in a diminutive, shaking breath. “Your Highness,” said Erasmus. Jokaste stared. Nicaise stared. The whole hall stared. It was unthinkable. He was a slave. Yet he had spoken. In the audience hall. During an audience. Out loud. “Your Highness,” repeated Erasmus. He knelt and kissed Torveld’s foot, and then his hand. Not only his breath was shaking now. His curls were honey, his complexion burnt sugar. Only fools worshipped the gods, anymore, but he looked every inch the son of divinity. “My Prince. Please. He’s younger than I am.” He spoke of himself in the first person, against the Akielon training he would have had. Was that the way of things, in Patras? Could a slave make demands of a prince? Torveld lifted his hand from under Erasmus’ lips and carded it through his hair with such tenderness that Jokaste almost had to look away. “He hurt you,” Torveld said, in a tone that outmatched the touch. “Please,” Erasmus said again. Torveld caressed Erasmus’s cheek, the underside of his jaw. Someone in the balconies coughed. “If it is your wish,” said Prince Torveld, “Then I will do for him what I can.”

“You should call him Stinky,” said Nicaise, as he and Jokaste were escorted to the rooms that had been granted them (Torveld did not want them let loose in his brother’s palace. Jokaste would work on that, though seduction was clearly out of the question. She had other talents). “For his most obvious feature.” Jokaste held her son closer. He did need a change of diaper. The female slaves had always handled that part, in Akielos, but Jokaste couldn’t bear to let him out of her arms for a moment so she would have to learn how to perform the necessary duty. “In Akielos, the prerogative of naming goes to the father,” she said, amused. “I’m too young to be a father,” said Nicaise, recoiling in disgust. “And I don’t give a fuck about Akielos.” He extended a finger into the blankets, and Jokaste’s son enclosed it in a tiny fist. “You could also call him Drooly. Or Leaky. Or Hideous.” Jokaste’s son was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen, but she didn’t expect Nicaise to understand that. He was still, as he had said, too young. In another life, he would have been a king, she had written on a scrap of paper left in a cage. Jokaste looked down at the baby in her arms, and across at Nicaise, chattering at the child with a never-ending stream of insults. She felt a smile sprout and grow. In another life. Perhaps it was not too late for this one, yet.

     Marigolds:  Princess Marigold was the daughter of King Midas, whom he turned to gold. Also in Greek mythology, there was a woman (Caltha) who fell in love with Apollo and was melted by his rays into a marigold. In bright bursts of oranges and yellows, marigolds are cheerful flowers that embolden any garden.

     Copper: In Greek mythology, copper is assigned to Aphrodite. It represents love, charisma, feminine beauty, and feminine youthfulness. It was the material used to make mirrors.

     Silver: in Hesiod’s Five Ages of Man, the Silver Age was the second. The men of the Silver age were inferior to those of the Gold Age and were killed by Zeus. Apollo and Artemis each possessed a silver bow. Silver is associated with the moon, and symbolizes clarity, focus, persistence, and strength.      Gold: Gold features prominently in Greek myth. The first, and best, of the Five Ages of Man was the Gold Age. The Goddess of Strife, Eris, provided a golden apple inscribed “To the Most Beautiful,” for Hera, Athena, and Aphrodite to fight over. Golden apples again feature in the story Atalanta and the footrace, where Aphrodite provided irresistible golden apples to her suitor to distract her so he could win the race and marry Atalanta. Before this, Atalanta was the only woman among the Argonauts on their quest for the Golden Fleece. Gold represents the sun, perfection, purity, and authority. It is the metal of Kings.

     And Queens.

Notes: I feel like after this Nicaise and Jokaste have a relationship where they each can pick at the other’s insecurities and it’s cool because it’s them? Post-traumatic road trips are weird.

What Nicaise did to Erasmus was extremely cruel but Jokaste doesn’t know that; she just knows that her boy got one up on that other guy. Also, Jokaste…has got no problem with collateral. <s>I love u bby ur doing amazing</s> Erasmus is a dear and is also one of the strongest people in the series, and eventually Jokaste realizes that.

Re: Nicaise to Torveld, even if Nicaise doesn’t completely understand he was the Regent’s victim, he’s starting to, and that was a big moment for him. (Nicaise has also noticed how adults react to how the Regent treated him, and is always down for manipulation and spectacle; but there was a bit of honesty there that he’s not going to admit to easily.)

(Also, I’m sure pets wear shoes sometimes, like when they’re riding horses, Ancel, honey, please. But I always imagined that most of the time they didn’t?)

This piece is a bit of a different style than I usually go for, but I try to match the style of my writing to the narrator so I wanted to give it a shot *shrug emoji*